


Classicverse 1.5 Iron Man: Murderer?

by Elspethdixon, Seanchai



Series: Classicverse [5]
Category: Marvel 616
Genre: AU, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-02
Updated: 2008-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-07 01:28:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elspethdixon/pseuds/Elspethdixon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seanchai/pseuds/Seanchai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Avengers' trust in a team member and in their financial sponsor is tested when Iron Man is accused of murder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Железный человек: Убийца?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/770256) by [ComradeSoapySoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComradeSoapySoot/pseuds/ComradeSoapySoot)



> Disclaimer: The characters and situations depicted herein belong to Stan Lee and Marvel comics. No profit is being made off of this derivative work. We're paid in love, people.
> 
> Author's Note: Plot blatantly stolen from Iron Man volume 1, issue #124-128. Yes, we're compressing timelines kind of a lot introducing this arc while the Heinrich Zemo storyline is still going on, but come on, you knew it was coming from the first moment Justin Hammer showed up. Hence, this fic is not quite so fluffy as the previous ones. The general PG-level rating is probably closer to PG-13 on this one. No slash yet, although hints are starting to show through.
> 
> As always, our thanks to tavella for the great beta job; this would be full of hideously embarrassing spelling errors if not for her.

** _Chapter One_ **

Steve had told himself that he needed to move on, get over it, stop dwelling on things that would only upset him, that there was nothing he could do to change the past. When he was awake, he even believed it. Unfortunately, his subconscious hadn't gotten with the program yet, and all of the things he could mostly ignore during the day came creeping out at night.

He had been jerked out of sleep by yet another dream of the German airplane exploding. This time he'd woken just as he hit the water, Bucky's cries for help ringing in his ears, to find the clock reading 4:30 a.m. He wasn't sure if that was better or worse than the times he dreamed of being frozen, and woke to find himself tangled in the blankets, unable to get warm.

After lying in bed for another half hour, futilely trying to get back to sleep, he had surrendered to the inevitable and gotten up; he was normally out of bed by five-thirty anyway.

Maybe this time he'd be able to figure out how to work the ridiculously complicated coffee-maker. Iron Man, Hank, Jan, and Jarvis had all attempted to explain how to operate it, but there were so many damn buttons. The coffee-maker could do at least twelve different things, including possibly think for itself. It seemed excessive when all he wanted was a simple cup of coffee.

He was in luck; Tony Stark was in the kitchen. He'd certainly know how to work the coffee machine; he'd built the Iron Man armor, and the coffee-maker was at marginally less complicated.

Stark was wearing a crumpled white dress shirt, his collar unbuttoned and his tie draped over the back of the chair beside him. He was resting his chin on one hand, staring intently at a sheaf of papers he'd spread out on the table in front of him. From the look of him, Steve suspected that he hadn't actually been to bed yet.

Most people, after a night without sleep, looked worn and tired. Stark also looked worn and tired, but somehow managed to appear slightly debauched as well. Steve wondered if he'd actually been doing anything to merit that impression, or if it was simply an innate skill.

He stood there for a moment, surveying the table, trying to find a spot that was clear of papers. There was none.

Steve cleared his throat, and Stark looked up, blinking, looking slightly dazed.

"Good morning," Steve said. "I'm not interrupting you, am I?"

"Oh. Cap." Stark rubbed at his eyes with one hand, then started collecting his papers back into a single pile. "Let me just move this. I hadn't realized it was morning already."

"I get up early," Steve said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. "Army training."

Stark nodded, his attention already reclaimed by the papers.

After a minute, Steve got up again, and went over to the coffee-maker. It crouched on the countertop, a mass of black plastic and silver metal, its little red light blinking at him mockingly. Steve inspected the panel of buttons, more of them than the most complicated radio he'd ever used. He selected one, pressed it, and the machine began to make a hissing noise. He pressed several more buttons, all of which failed to make the hissing stop.

"Here." Stark elbowed him out of the way, moving to stand in front of the machine. He pushed a single button, and all was silent again. "You take your coffee black, right? With two spoonfuls of sugar?"

"Um, yes," Steve managed after a moment, once he'd overcome his surprise at the fact that Stark actually knew that. How did he know that? Steve had eaten breakfast with the other Avengers before, but never with Stark.

Only a couple of minutes later, Stark was presenting him with a cup of hot coffee fixed just the way Steve liked it. Steve took his coffee, and the two of them returned to the table, Steve resuming his seat in the cleared space opposite Stark.

"What are you reading?" Steve asked, nodding at the papers. He took a sip of his coffee, which was perfect.

"Everything I can about Carñelia. My bodyguard and I have a meeting with the Carñelian Ambassador early this afternoon, and I'm not as up to date as I should be on countries that maintain a policy of neutrality in global conflicts," he said, offering Steve a rueful smile. "Now that SI's branching out from weapons into medical and communications technology, Carñelia's interested in what we've got to offer them. They've got a lot of mineral resources, but they don't have the infrastructure to capitalize on them on their own," he went on, gesturing towards the papers with his silver pen. "They've seen the disaster Vespugia's made of their ecosystem with open pit mining and slash and burn logging, and they don't want to repeat their neighbors' mistakes."

"What exactly does your company do, other than not make land mines anymore?" Steve hated to ask and reveal his ignorance, but he'd been living in Stark's house for a month, and he still didn't really know.

Stark's lips twitched. "I just wish the stockholders were as interested in all the things we make that aren't weapons." He sighed, laying his pen down. "On my end, I mostly spend hours in meetings with men who used to work with my father and still think I'm twelve, the majority of whom still haven't forgiven me for the fifty-some points our stock dropped after I shut down weapons production."

"Oh," Steve said. He took another sip of his coffee. The mug had "Stark Industries" printed on its side, along with the corporate logo. "But what do you actually make?"

"We still have a lot of defense contracts, mostly aircraft systems work and targeting systems. And we make commercial communications technology and medical equipment. The same technology that I designed for the articulated joints in the armor turned out to be really useful in artificial limbs. It picks up on the electrical impulses in your muscles and nerves and translates them into movements, and we've managed to eliminate the lag time most of our competitors' technologies still suffer from."

Steve, listening to Stark's obvious enthusiasm, found himself smiling. It reminded him of Iron Man, right down the hand gestures Stark was now making to illustrate how his company's prosthetics worked. Iron Man had made similar hand gestures while explaining how the Avengers communications equipment worked.

It was easy to see why Iron Man and Stark were friends, and also obvious that they spent a lot of time around one another.

The thought brought home to him once again just how little he really knew about Iron Man. Stark had spent enough time around him for them to pick up one another's speech patterns, while Steve didn't even know Iron Man's real name. Steve glanced down at his coffee, his smile fading for a moment, then looked back up at Stark.

Stark ran a hand through his hair, leaving it even more disheveled than before, then shook his head. "That's not what's paying the bills, though," he went on. "Right now we're building something big for SHIELD. Technically it's classified, but if I can't tell Captain America about it, who can I tell?" He grinned. "It's a flying aircraft carrier."

A flying... "That was Nick's idea, wasn't it?"

Stark shook his head, still grinning. "No, the flying cars were Fury's idea. The Helicarrier is a group effort."

"Meaning you, Nick, and Dum-Dum?" Steve guessed. Flying cars? That sounded like something out of Buck Rogers. Just when he thought he'd adjusted to being in the future, he'd run into something else straight out of a comic book.

"Reed Richards from the Fantastic Four is helping, too. He's the one who figured out the math for the anti-matter units that power it. The flying cars were all mine, though."

Dr. Reed Richards, whom Hank regarded with something approaching awe, was a Nobel prize winning physicist whose entire family were apparently superheroes. The entire thing sounded a little odd to Steve; from what he'd heard, Richards had given them all superpowers by mistake. By going into space. That was the point at which Hank's explanation had stopped making sense.

Steve set his empty coffee down and got up to rummage through Jarvis's refrigerator. Stark was still talking.

"Their wheels double as rotor blades; they rotate sideways and provide lift and angled thrust..."

Steve listened with half an ear as he pulled eggs and milk out of the refrigerator and found a frying pan in one of the cupboards. "I'm making scrambled eggs," he interrupted. "Would you like any?"

"No," Stark said, a mildly horrified expression on his face. "I'm... not really a breakfast person." He stood, collecting an empty mug from a corner of the table, and poured himself what Steve suspected was by no means his first cup of coffee. He leaned back against the counter, mug cradled in one hand, and watched as Steve got down a bowl to beat the eggs in. "If you want to wait, I'm sure Jarvis will be making breakfast later."

"Yes," Steve agreed; he was already looking forward to another of Jarvis's breakfasts, "but I'm hungry now."

Stark watched as Steve poured the beaten egg and milk mixture into the pan, then sat down and resumed reading.

A few minutes later, the eggs were ready. Steve divided them between two plates, one for himself and one for Stark, and took them over to the table.

Stark didn't look up when Steve set his plate and a fork in font of him.

Steve sat down and began to eat his eggs, watching Stark as he continued to read. Early morning light was beginning to spill in through the kitchen windows, making the room feel cheerful and banishing the last shreds of his dreams.

Stark was playing idly with his pen while he read, absent-mindedly twirling it through his fingers. He had long, slender fingers, Steve noted. There was a shiny burn mark on left index finger; Iron Man had said that he was going to make the Mansion's new wrought iron gates personally. Steve wondered if he had already started, if that was where the burn had come from.

After a minute or so, Stark set down the pen and turned over a page. Then he reached out and, rather than picking up the pen again, picked up the fork. Then, apparently automatically, since he never once glanced up from his reading, he started to eat.

Steve smiled to himself and put his empty plate in the dishwasher. The he left the kitchen to go and get ready for morning run, feeling oddly satisfied and not quite knowing why.

  
***

The Carñelian Ambassador had specifically requested Iron Man's presence at the opening round of talks about a potential US-Carñelian trade agreement. Stark Industries was, of course, going to be playing a large role in this agreement, since there were tentative plans for a mine and refinery jointly owned and operated by SI and Industrias Nacionales, Carñelia's largest manufacturing company. Carñelia's economy had a strong socialist influence, and all of their heavy industry was owned by the government.

Which meant that Iron Man was there more as a walking advertisement for SI than anything else. Tony always felt a little silly when he was playing games for the media like this, like a walking billboard. And today was going an especially tricky masquerade, because Iron Man was going to be escorting the Carñelian Ambassador in and out of the building, while Tony Stark had to show up at the meeting as himself.

The plaza in front of the UN building was filled with cameramen and reporters, and of course, the usual complement of security people. Numerous cameras flashed as he walked toward the building, its smoothly reflective surface throwing the glare back at him.

There were a handful of protestors with signs denouncing the World Trade Organization, and a number of tourists and sightseers in the crowd as well, which made him feel even more like some exhibit on display. They must be here to catch a glimpse of the politicians and foreign dignitaries; Iron Man wasn't newsworthy unless he was fighting something.

"No!" he heard a child in the crowd wail piercingly. "Don't want to see the robot! I don't like the robot!"

Tony winced. Well that was a good omen; he was starting the meeting off by frightening small children.

He paused at the broad double doors and waited as the Ambassador's car approached.

The camera flashes increased exponentially as the car door opened and the ambassador climbed out. He was shorter than Tony, and somewhat heavyset, his dark hair going thin on top. Even from his station by the doors, Tony could see the man's cheerful smile. The bodyguard who accompanied him, nearly a head taller than Tony despite the extra height the armor leant him, didn't look as if he'd ever smiled in his life.

"Iron Man!" the ambassador called out, stepped forward with his hand outstretched. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

Tony shook his hand, careful not to grip it too hard, "I'm honored that you asked for me, Mr. Ambassador. I'm sure the boss would have been more than willing to come out and meet you himself."

"We have no superheroes in Carñelia, so this is very exciting for me." The ambassador hesitated for a moment, then offered Tony a slightly embarrassed smile, and produced a piece of paper and a pen from one of his suit pockets. "In fact, would you mind signing an autograph? For my niece."

"Of course," Tony said, taking the paper and pen. At least not all children were afraid of him. "What's your niece's name?"

"Ah," the ambassador looked somewhat more embarrassed. "Sergio," he muttered.

Inside the helmet, Tony grinned. "Sergio" as in "Sergio Larocca, Carñelian ambassador to the United States." "Right," he said, still smiling to himself, and signed the piece of paper "to Sergio."

Ambassador Larocca accepted the autographed paper back, folded it, and put it in his pocket with a pleased smile. "So, you are an ordinary man inside your suit, correct?"

"I'm just a guy in a tin suit, Ambassador," Tony agreed. "Mr. Stark's circuitry does all the real work." He ushered the ambassador through the doors, into the building's spacious lobby and away from the reporters.

"I must admit, since you first turned up on the international news last year, I've wondered what it would be like to wear such a suit."

"There's nothing like it in the world," Tony told him, dropping the corporate shill act for a moment in favor of honest enthusiasm. He'd always loved flying, and flying in the armor was even better. It was a no-holds-barred, total immersion kind of flying, one of the only times he was able to block everything else out and just enjoy something. "It's better than having your own private jet."

"It must be like being Superman."

"I guess so." Tony shrugged, the armor making a faint whirring sound as he did so. "I never really thought about that way." He'd always preferred Batman; Batman won by being smarter than his opponents, not by super-strength.

The two of them -- and the entourage of security people and aides -- reached the entrance to the conference room where the talks were being held, and Tony came to stop, gesturing at the door. "This is where I leave you," he said. "I had to get all kinds of special permission just to get this far into the UN building, what with all the weapons in my suit. The boss will be with you shortly."

"Ah." Ambassador Larocca nodded. "I had wondered about that. Will I be seeing you later? I had hoped to get some photos with you, for the newspapers back home."

Tony agreed that he would be available for photographs later, then quickly departed for the privacy of a secluded corner, where Iron Man could turn back into Tony Stark; thank God he'd been able to make the armor compact enough that it could be discreetly tucked away inside a briefcase.

The talks went surprisingly well, better than Tony had expected. Aside from Ambassador Larocca's momentary look of surprise upon meeting him, no one commented on the fact that Tony was at least a decade younger than anyone else in the room.

Carñelia was very enthusiastic about opening trade with the US, and was far more amenable to the conditions that State Department had insisted upon than Tony had dared to hope for. The ambassador countered with two conditions of his own; that Carñelia would own all the infrastructure for the NIC/SI mine and manufacturing plant, and that all operations would abide by Carñelia's strict environmental laws.

The stricter emissions laws were a plus, actually. Tony was almost certain that not only could he reduce the factory's greenhouse gas emissions and energy consumption while still making a profit, but that he could actually save money by doing so. Then, when it came time to discuss making modification to SI main plant with the board of directors, he could wave the statistics in their faces.

Ambassador Larocca had also pushed for the US to join Carñelia's trade embargo against Vespugia. Tony -- and the various politicians in attendance -- had made noncommittal noises, but given that Nick Fury had cited Hammer Industry's connection with Vespugia as one of the reasons the other company had lost its contract with SHIELD, Tony foresaw a breakdown of US-Vespugian relations on the horizon anyway. Vespugia had recently signed a trade agreement of their own with Latveria, with didn't work in their favor in the eyes of most of the UN, even if Latveria was technically a member of the UN as well. Fury had hinted strongly that Hammer Industries-made adamantium was being funneled into Latveria via Vespugia.

Nothing had actually been signed yet, but everybody from Washington had looked pleased, so Tony could only assume that they had made progress.

Tony made his excuses as soon as they all had all had left the conference room, and ducked out of sight to change into Iron Man again. He met the ambassador at the front door.

"I think the photograph would be best outside," the photographer who had accompanied the Carñelian delegation said, hefting a massive, fancy digital camera. He had a heavier accent than the ambassador, and, refreshingly, looked only a little older than Tony. It made Tony feel slightly less like a kid playing dress-up amongst the real adults, something he was starting to get a little sick of, to be honest.

At least in the armor, no one could tell that he was twenty-four.

Tony and the ambassador obediently went outside, everyone else following them. They then had to undergo several minutes of being positioned to the photographer's satisfaction, with the portion of the row of flagpoles that included Carñelia's flag to the best advantage in the background.

"Now stand next to one another," the photographer directed. "And you, Iron Man, put your hand on his back. We want this to look friendly."

"Senor Guice is new," Ambassador Larocca whispered to Tony. "He joined us just before we left Carñelia. I've been assured that he's quite good."

Tony put his left gauntlet on Larocca's shoulder, angling his body slightly so that he appeared to be looking at Larocca, but was still facing the camera. "Well, at least I won't have to worry about whether or not I'm smiling or if I've got my eyes closed," Tony joked.

The ambassador laughed, and then the photographer held up his camera and said, "Smile, gentlemen."

As the flash went off, Tony felt his left hand vibrate, almost as if his repulsors were being fired. The ambassador staggered forward, and Tony grabbed at him to keep him from falling, and then his helmet was filled with the smell of burning flesh.

He hadn't turned his air filters on. Not for a publicity appearance.

People were screaming, all around him.

There was a perfect hole burned through the ambassador's chest, still smoking slightly, and an almost incongruous lack of blood. Everything had been cauterized, of course.

The ambassador's gigantic bodyguard snatched Larocca's body away from him, lowering him to the ground. Then he had his gun out, and aimed squarely at Tony. All the security officers had their guns aimed at Tony.

"You killed him!" the bodyguard yelled.

"No," Tony stuttered, taking a step back. "I-"

"You killed him!" someone else shouted.

He couldn't have. He hadn't fired the repulsor. He hadn't done anything. He hadn't--

"Grab him. Don't let him blast anyone else!"

He had to get away, away from Sergio's body, away from all of these people shouting at him. Away from everything.

Tony fired his boot jets, and was gone.

  
***

Law enforcement officers and reporters were practically laying siege to Stark Industries. This wasn't the first time something like that had had happened, but it was about the worst Happy had ever seen. Everyone wanted to get their hands on Iron Man, everyone wanted to talk to Tony Stark, and nobody had seen a scrap of the boss in half a hour.

Pepper had been handling the cops and the media so far, but she was starting to get desperate, and when Pepper got desperate, Happy was the one she took it out on. It didn't help that she had privately decided that the boss had gone missing because Iron Man had turned criminal and kidnapped him. Happy had tried to reassure her that that wasn't the case, but it wasn't like there was much he could say to that without giving away the boss's secret.

But her worrying had set Happy worrying. Obviously, the boss hadn't kidnapped himself, but there was no way he'd killed that ambassador guy either, which meant that somebody else must've done it, and maybe that somebody had gotten his hands on Tony.

It could have been the Chameleon, shape-shifted to make himself look like the armor. That was the best option, probably. If it wasn't him, then some bastard had taken the boss out and stolen his armor, and for all Happy knew, Tony might be tied up in a broom closet somewhere, completely helpless without his armor.

If that was so, Happy needed to find him before his batteries ran down, and that bum ticker of his stopped.

Pepper had finally sent Happy off with a flea in his ear and orders not to come back without the boss. He'd decided to make Tony's office his first stop, just in case the boss had left some kind of a clue there. If not, he was going to have to call the Avengers and ask them for help, and Happy was never entirely sure he trusted the Avengers, for all that he'd heard the boss sing Captain America's praises. He definitely didn't trust them to know to take care of Tony; they were as in the dark on Iron Man's true identity as anyone else, so who knew what they were thinking about him right now.

The office was empty, as Happy had expected, but the door to the boss's workroom in back was open a crack. Tony was super-paranoid about his armor, and that workroom was where he did his tinkering on it; you needed all kinds of passwords and finger-print clearances and other security mumbo-jumbo to get in there. There was no way the boss would ever just leave it open like that.

Happy nudged the door open and edged in sideways, to make a smaller target for anybody that might be waiting to jump on him, his right hand already bunched into a fist.

Nothing happened. The room was dark and, as far as Happy could see, empty.

He reached around behind him and flicked on the light switch.

The boss was huddled in a ball in the far corner of the lab, not moving. He was wearing the armor's red breastplate, and the right gauntlet; the rest of the armor was scattered around him on the floor, except for the left gauntlet, which was lying in the middle of the floor, a couple of feet away.

All right, so, it looked like the boss wasn't tied up in a broom closet somewhere after all, but Happy wasn't sure this was an improvement.

Happy went over and put a hand on the boss's shoulder. Tony jerked a little, and looked up at him, face blank. Something about his eyes made Happy guess that the boss wasn't really seeing him.

"There wasn't any blood," Tony said, voice a hoarse whisper. "He's dead, and there wasn't even any blood."

Happy crouched down in front of him, one hand still on his shoulder. "Look, Boss," he said, trying to make his voice gentle, "you know and I know that you didn't kill that guy." He had no idea what had actually happened, but he knew that much had to be true.

Tony shook his head, but Happy ignored that and pressed on; they didn't have time for the boss to fall apart right now. Happy needed to get him up and moving. He was always better when he was doing something. "Pep's out there on her own trying to keep the sharks away, but you gotta get out there and help. She can't hold them off forever. You're not going to let whoever did kill him get away with it, are ya?"

"No, you're right." Tony shook his head once, hard, as if trying to clear it. "I can't hide in here." He started to stand, and Happy grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him to his feet.

The boss pulled away from him immediately and began pacing back and forth, somehow managing to avoid stepping on or tripping over any of the pieces of armor on the floor. "You're right. Iron Man can't stay missing forever, or the authorities will never leave us alone. I've got to call Fury."

"You're not going to turn yourself in, are you, boss?" Happy blurted out, appalled at the idea. "You didn't do it!"

Tony winced, shaking his head again. "No, I can't turn myself in. The company would go to pieces. I'll turn a set of the armor over to SHIELD and tell them Iron Man left it with me, and that I don't know where he is."

"Fury's not going to like that," Happy observed glumly.

Tony smiled wryly, an expression with no real humor in it. "He'll like it even less when he figures out that the armor I'm going to give him is an old suit with all the essential circuitry stripped out, but it'll take SHIELD at least a day to figure that out and that'll give me time to start working on what happened."

Happy hadn't actually thought the boss would hand his real suit of armor over, but it was still good to hear it. And it was good to know he'd come up with some kind of a plan, but... "How are you gonna do that if Iron Man's stuck 'in hiding?'"

"What ever went wrong-" the boss broke off, looking down at the gauntlet he was still wearing, face closed. "Whatever went wrong, it had something to do with the armor." He pulled the gauntlet off, setting it gently on one of the workbenches, then reached for the fastenings on the breastplate. "I need to tear it down, go over it piece by piece to see what the problem is."

"And when you find out who was messing with it..." Someone must have sabotaged it; it was the only other explanation that made sense, now that Happy knew it hadn't been the Chameleon or something. The boss wasn't careless enough to make mistakes with his armor, not mistakes like that, anyway.

The boss gave him a smile that looked a little wobbly around the edges. "If I find out that someone sabotaged it," he said, "then I'll see to it that they're brought to justice."

Happy nodded, and took hold of the boss's arm, tugging him toward the door. "Good," he said. "Now come on. Pep's already looking for you, and you know how she hates being kept waiting."

"Thanks for coming to get me, Hap," the boss said, pulling away and straightening his shirt and tie. "Sorry I left you two in the lurch."

The two of them walked out into Tony's office, and Happy closed the door behind them, hearing the click of the locks reengaging. "Hey, no problem, boss." Neither of them was ever going to bring this up again, he knew, anymore then they'd ever talked about the times Happy had found the boss unconscious on the floor of his office and had to carry him into the workroom to get plugged in and recharged. "Just part of the job."

***

  
"This must all be some foul trick," Thor insisted forcefully, "meant to make us doubt our fellow Avenger. Or perhaps some villain was controlling him against his will."

Steve hoped that was true; he hated to contemplate the alternative. He tried to ignore the insistent voice of logic that pointed out that two Avengers being mind-controlled inside a month strained credulity.

"It must be some kind of mistake," Jan said, shaking her head. She was sitting on the couch, full size for once in deference to the gravity of the situation.

Without anyone mentioning it aloud, they had all unanimously decided not to discuss the situation in the conference room. It would have felt too much like passing judgment on Iron Man in his absence. As long as they were in the living room, they could at least keep the illusion that this was just a casual discussion.

"Whatever happened, it's going to be a disaster for Stark Industries," Jan went on. She paused for a moment, frowning thoughtfully. "Iron Man is Tony's friend, not just his bodyguard; he would never cause that much trouble for the company on purpose."

If one were willing to murder an innocent man in cold blood, causing trouble for one's employer's company probably wasn't much of a sticking point. Steve shifted his weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortably.

The rest of the team looked like they felt just as ill at ease as he did. Thor was standing with his arms folded across his chest, glowering as if already contemplating the punishment he would deal out to whomever had caused this mess. Jan's shoulders were slumped, her palms flat to the couch, fingers digging into the fabric. Hank, sitting on the couch across from her, was frowning, his chin resting on his uninjured hand. The splint had been removed from his right index finger, but his index and middle fingers were still bound together with tape to restrict movement; Steve suspected that all of the continued growing and shrinking might be causing it to heal more slowly than it otherwise might have.

"We have to consider the possibility that it was Tony Stark's mistake, not Iron Man's," Hank said gloomily. "There may be some design flaw in the armor, equipment failure instead of pilot error."

If that was the case, if it had been Stark's mistake, Iron Man was blameless. The fact that he was currently standing in Tony Stark's living room just made Steve feel like even more of a heel for hoping Hank was right.

No one had mentioned the worst possibility yet, at least, not outright. Steve sighed, and then said what he knew they were all thinking. "Or it might be exactly what it looked like, and Iron Man might have murdered the Carñelian ambassador, for some reason we don't know about."

The rest of the team was silent, staring at Steve mournfully. Well, Thor looked mournful. Hank and Jan looked... guilty?

Steve glanced back over his shoulder, and with a sinking stomach, beheld Tony Stark standing in the doorway.

He was wearing the same shirt he'd had on yesterday at breakfast, now wrinkled past repair, and he had clearly neither slept nor shaved since the last time Steve had seen him. His eyes were red, and there was a general air of brittle exhaustion about him. "Next you're going to suggest that maybe he was acting on my orders, right?"

Steve wished miserably that the floor would open up and swallow him, or maybe that he was back in France facing a German panzer brigade. For half a second, he contemplated lying and denying this, but Stark's feeling aside, it was a possibility that they needed to address. "Well, was he?" he asked.

Stark winced, looking away. Steve wasn't sure if that was a positive sign, or a negative one.

The suddenly leaden silence was broken by Jarvis, who swept into the room with his normal unflappable demeanor, as if they weren't all standing around trying to find a polite way to accuse his boss of murder.

"The... gentleman from SHIELD is here to see you, sir," he said, with a slight stress on the word 'gentleman' that implied that he thought Fury was anything but.

"Thanks, Jarvis," Stark said. "Tell him I'll be with him in a minute." He gave Jarvis a strained smile that was painful to look at. "I've asked Nick Fury to meet me here. I'm going to turn the armor over to him, so SHIELD can examine it," he explained to the rest of them.

That was when Steve registered the briefcase Stark was clutching in one hand, his grip so tight that his knuckles were a bloodless white. Presumably, it held the armor.

Steve hadn't thought it would fit into such a comparatively small container. He hadn't thought that Iron Man was able to take it off at all.

If he had been wrong about the armor serving as some sort of life-support system, what else might he have been wrong about?

Nick Fury was waiting in the front hallway, leaning against the wall, an unlit cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth. Unsurprisingly, Dum Dum Dugan was with him, as was a large blond man Steve didn't know, who was also wearing a SHIELD uniform.

Steve, Thor, Jan, and Hank had followed Stark in, though whether they were there for moral support or as an armed escort was anybody's guess.

"Where's your bodyguard, Stark?" Nick said, glancing lazily around the front hall in a way that Steve knew was not as casual as it looked. "I'm supposed to take him into custody."

"I don't know," Stark said, voice flat. "He's disappeared. He left me the armor to give to you." He held the briefcase out toward Nick. The blond agent stepped forward and took it.

He glanced down at the briefcase in mild surprise as Stark relinquished it, his arm sagging as he took its full weight. "This thing weighs a ton. What's in it?"

"The armor," Dum Dum told him, in a tone of voice that implied that the agent was not going to be getting a promotion any time soon. "That case isn't going to explode when he opens it to make sure you're not putting one over on us, is it?"

Stark shook his head. "That's the other briefcase." He attempted another smile, with even less success, and flexed the fingers of the hand that had been holding the briefcase, as if trying to work the stiffness out of them.

"Well now," Nick drawled. "So ya don't know where he is. That's mighty convenient."

Stark didn't acknowledge the insinuation, staring levelly at Nick. "We both want to know how this could have happened."

"As do we all," Thor rumbled. He was watching the three SHIELD agents closely, his arms folded across his chest in a way that managed to make him look even bigger than usual -- and he was already one of the few people Steve had to look up at.

Nick raised his good eyebrow at Thor. "I don't suppose the rest of ya know where Iron Man is?"

"No," Thor said, in tones that discouraged further inquiries. "We do not."

Hank opened his mouth as if about to speak, then shut it and looked down, starting to fiddle with the tape on his fingers.

If Steve were Nick, he would now be convinced that the Avengers knew exactly where Iron Man was, and were deliberately stonewalling him. As it was, if Steve hadn't known for a fact that none of the team knew, he would have been suspicious himself.

"I've been going over it all night," Stark said, nodding at the briefcase, "and I can't figure out what happened. Maybe your people will have better luck." He shook his head. "I don't know what went wrong," he went on, words picking up speed as he went. "None of the wires are corroded, none of the connections are broken, all of the electronic elements are working properly, the code is error free, all of the moving parts are fine -- there isn't even any metal fatigue in the joints." He punctuated this speech with short, sharp hand gestures, voice getting more and more emotional. "There isn't so much as an improperly threaded screw!" Stark threw up his hands, then let them fall, turning away and running a hand through his hair, eyes closing for a second. "I have no idea what I did wrong," he said softly.

Steve had never seen Stark this upset; his misery was too obviously raw to be faked. Was he upset because he believed what he said, that Iron Man was innocent and that the flaw was in the armor, and he was in some way responsible for a man's death, or was he upset because he knew Iron Man had betrayed him and committed murder but for some reason wasn't willing to turn him over to the authorities? Or maybe Stark was just a very, very good actor, and had orchestrated the whole thing himself, setting Steve's teammate up to take the fall for him. Or maybe they were in it together.

He didn't know what to think anymore, and the frustration made him want to grind his teeth. "Maybe there isn't anything wrong with the armor," he said, doing his best to keep his voice even.

Stark actually flinched. "This is my fault," he said, meeting Steve's eyes for the first time since he'd walked in on the Avengers' discussion. "I killed him," he went on, dully, "not Iron Man. I'm the one who screwed up."

"Believe me," Nick said dryly, "if I find out he was acting on your orders, I'll be back for you. Consider this your warning not to leave the country."

"Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere." Stark's shoulders were slumped now, his voice completely empty of animation, as if he'd run out of energy.

Jan stepped forward and laid a hand on Stark's arm. "SHIELD's going to have their best people working on it. Maybe one of them will be able to see something you couldn't." She cocked her head to one side, peering up at him, and wrinkled her nose. "Tony, have you actually slept in the past twenty-four hours? Or eaten anything?"

"No," Hank said promptly. Stark blinked at him, frowning, and he added, "What? I never take breaks when I'm working on something important. I bet he doesn't, either."

Stark rubbed at his face with one hand, and shook his head. "I haven't had time for that."

Maybe it really was the armor. Maybe Stark had been upset and tired enough to miss something.

The man Steve knew, the one he'd fought beside, the one he'd spent all those nights with, talking about everything and nothing, wouldn't have murdered an innocent man. The person who'd told Steve that he had been given a second chance and wanted to prove himself worthy of it by saving people, who'd confessed after Thor had been controlled by the Enchantress that the idea of being used as a weapon gave him the creeps ("The armor could have caused a lot of damage,"); that man would never have done this.

Steve turned to Nick. "If Iron Man shows up here, we'll contact you." He hoped Iron Man had the sense to stay far away. He didn't want to have to be the one to turn him in.

"You do that," Nick said, giving Steve a look that conveyed his doubt that the Avengers would do any such thing. Then he left, Dum Dum and subordinate in tow.

The door closed behind them, and for a long moment, no one spoke.

"There's nothing else you can do at this point," Steve told Stark. "Why don't you go get some rest?"

"You guys know this isn't what it looks like, right?" Stark asked, once again meeting Steve's eyes directly, as if the answer were too important to risk misreading Steve's expression when he gave it.

"We know this is not Iron Man's doing," Thor assured him, sounding almost offended that Stark could think otherwise. "The fault lies neither with your liegeman, nor with your armor. Some enemy who wishes you ill must have influenced him, as the Enchantress did to me. We know both of you are blameless."

Stark smiled at him, a real smile this time, though the tiredness did not leave his eyes. "Thanks, buddy. I'll tell old Shellhead you said that."

"If you see him," Hank put in.

Jan jabbed him in the side with an elbow; Steve wondered what that was about.

"Go rest, Mr. Stark," Steve said. "We'll call you if SHIELD tells us anything."

He just hoped that their next contact with SHIELD wasn't going to be request to help Nick take down Iron Man.

***

  



	2. Chapter 2

Technically speaking, Tony had a very expensive and spacious apartment near the Stark Industries complex. He almost never used it, except for when he brought a date home for the night, preferring to sleep in his workroom, or, sometimes, at the Avengers Mansion. Except that right now, he wasn't sleeping at any of those places, because he couldn't sleep.

Cap had told him that he ought to get some rest, and Cap was generally right about these sorts of things, especially considering that Tony hadn't slept in nearly forty-eight hours. Every time he tried, he kept remembering the way Sergio had been laughing at his stupid joke only second before he died. No, being honest, only seconds before Tony had killed him.

He could still smell the scent of charred flesh. It had been over a day, and he could still smell it.

Being in his workroom, surrounded by his equipment and the armor, ought to have made him feel better. It was where he went to decompress after long days at work, or hard fights. It wasn't working this time, though. This wasn't something he could escape from.

He had been lying down on the cot in one of the darker corners of the workroom, trying without success to fall asleep, but he'd ended up lying there for nearly an hour without any luck.

He'd eventually decided to enlist some assistance. The Napoleon brandy he kept stored in his office in case some important visitor needed schmoozing was very expensive and very good, but thus far, hadn't proved very helpful.

Now he was sitting up on the cot, his back against the wall and his knees drawn up to his chest, watching the way the light from the room's various computer screens reflected in his half-empty glass, and trying once again to figure out what had happened to the armor yesterday. He still had no idea what he had done wrong. Obviously, he'd done something wrong, because Sergio was dead, but what?

The armor lay in a neat pile on the nearest lab bench, the red and gold metal gleaming mockingly. Tony had checked it for every kind of damage, maintenance failure, or design flaw he could think of. As far as he could tell, it was perfect, flawless.

This sort of thing wasn't supposed to happen to him. He was an engineering genius. He was even better at mechanical design than he was at convincing women to get naked and horizontal with him. Or sometimes naked and vertical. Or convincing men to get naked with him, regardless of position.

Happy thought someone had set him up. Happy always believed in Tony, even though he usually didn't deserve it.

Thor hadn't blamed him either, but Thor was probably just being nice, and in an extra forgiving mood after the incident with the Enchantress.

Jan thought it was an accident, that old Shellhead had screwed up. Hank thought Tony Stark had screwed up. And worst of all, Cap thought that he'd done it on purpose, or at least, was worried that he might have.

Cap thought he was capable of murdering a man in cold blood. Of ordering his bodyguard to murder a man in cold blood.

Tony finished the rest of his glass of brandy in one long swallow. The heavy crystal decanter was sitting on the floor beside the cot. It was overly ornate, a relic of his father's tenure as head of SI.

He needed to have it replaced, Tony mused, as he refilled his glass. Something more streamlined, less Victorian. Maybe that would help make people stop comparing him to his father all the time and finding him wanting.

On the other hand, killing someone on the steps of the UN was definitely something Howard Stark had never done. The only blood on his father's hands had been third-hand, the blood of people killed by SI's weapons. If his father had ever killed anybody, it was probably for selling him faulty materials, and he would have done it via hired thugs. Good old Howard certainly wouldn't have done it by accident.

Rhodey didn't think it was an accident, either. Rhodey had called earlier, in spite of the fact that he was busy being a test pilot at one of the overseas plants and they hadn't talked in over a week -- time differences, and a consequence of the fact that they both had busy schedules. He thought it was, "a damn big coincidence that your gauntlet malfunctioned just in time to kill the ambassador of Carñelia. Come on, tell me there's someone who doesn't profit from that."

Maybe Rhodey and Happy and Thor had a point. Not about it not being Tony's fault -- it was his armor, he'd built it, anything it did was his fault -- but about someone having set this up.

Who would benefit from offing Carñelia's ambassador? The Mandarin liked anything that caused international discord, since this furthered his goal of eventually conquering all of Asia, if only by making the rest of the world less likely to interfere, but the Mandarin could never have gone this long after successfully pulling off a scheme without calling him up to gloat. Titanium Man would never have been this subtle. He stuck to purely physical attacks, usually while bragging loudly about how much bigger and stronger he was than Iron Man, which invariably made him look like an idiot when he lost. The Scarecrow had only been interested in stealing things. The Phantom had been hell bent on discrediting SI, but he was in jail. The Melter had it in for SI, too, or at least, had it in for Tony, but Cap and the others had taken him down and sent him packing off to Rykers Island as well.

The brandy was very good, but Tony couldn't even taste the smooth burn of it anymore. Dreadful way to treat good alcohol, of course, but he needed something to make the sight of Sergio's body go away.

It had helped after Afghanistan, when he couldn't relax because he'd had terrorists watching him for three months, ready to shoot him if he made the slightest slip, and had needed to be able to laugh and smile and charm people at parties to keep them from thinking that Tony Stark had gone over the edge while he was tied up in a cave. He couldn't be the force of personality that Howard Stark had been, so he had to be charming and personable, or at least confident. It had helped after Afghanistan, but it wasn't helping now.

Normally, he found that alcohol helped to dull things. Dull was good. Dull didn't hurt.

Maybe it wasn't about him. Maybe this was about Carñelia. Who would've had it in for their ambassador? There weren't any uprisings or impending military coups in Carñelia; that's why the board had agreed to let him put a factory there. So, not other Carñelians. Unless Sergio had some skeletons in the closet that no one knew about.

The whole factory and mining deal was off, obviously, and chances were any alliance with the US was off, at least for the foreseeable future. Somebody must have wanted to prevent America from increasing its presence in South America. Which was... most of South America, probably. But especially Vespugia, because they wanted to continue their efforts to strip mine half the Amazon jungle without people telling them that they couldn't use what was effectively slave labor when they did so.

Maybe it was Vespugia. From what he'd heard about the place from Fury, he wouldn't be surprised. Maybe it was old Mandy, and he was branching out from Asia. Hell, he didn't know anymore.

Whoever it was, they must have tampered with the armor in some way. Remote signals, maybe. He might have over-looked that, since he'd been looking for mistakes and not outside interference.

Given how many people had suggested the possibility, it was incredibly stupid of him not to have looked for it earlier. He needed to go over the armor again.

Tony set his empty glass down very carefully on the floor. He swung his legs over the side of the cot and stood, one hand braced against the wall, then sat again abruptly as the floor tilted under him.

Woops. Two days without sleep was clearly catching up to him. He would look at the armor tomorrow. Maybe if he gave himself a few hours away from it, a few hours of sleep, he'd be able to look at it with fresh eyes and figure out what the hell had been done to it.

If he knew what had happened, then he'd know who.

Cap hadn’t answered him when Tony had asked him if he really thought he was guilty.

The alcohol was supposed to make him numb. Anes... anesthetize things. Why wasn't it working?

Maybe one more drink would help. Maybe then he'd finally be able to sleep.

  
***

Stark Industries was a subdued place this morning; you could practically sense the employees' fear over the state of their continued employment as they hurried silently through the hallways, heads down.

Justin Hammer, observing it, felt a warm glow of satisfaction. Stark Industries stock was at rock bottom, lower than it had been since its dramatic drop after Howard Stark's death. Even Anthony Stark's ill-considered decision to cease producing munitions hadn't caused market shares to plummet this far.

Hammer had seen many a company collapse in his time, generally just before he bought the entire firm out lock, stock, and barrel, and SI had that feel to it now, the feel of desperation.

It was beautiful to behold. Originally, he'd simply planned to drive Stark out of business so that he'd stop interfering with Hammer Industries' contracts, but as he strode through the long hallway of the SI complex's main building, it occurred to him that once this entire business was through, SI would be ripe for a hostile takeover.

There was a certain justice to the concept, given the amount of business both Starks had stolen from him over the years.

The door to Stark's office was firmly shut. The man's red-headed snip of a secretary tried to bar him entrance, insisting that no one got in to see Mr. Stark without an appointment. Hammer ignored her, easily sidestepping her attempt to physically bar the door and throwing it open.

When he was occupying Stark's office, he decided, the minimalist modern desk would be the first thing to go, followed by the framed TIME Magazine cover photo of Iron Man on the wall, not to mention the giant bookshelf of engineering manuals.

The floor-to-ceiling picture window behind Stark's desk was impressive, but the entire office was too plain, barren, obviously the workplace of a man who had other priorities than business, who cared more about impressing supermodels than making the proper impression on prospective business partners.

The set of cut-crystal decanters by the side wall could stay, though, he decided. They must be a hold-over from Howard Stark's tenure as CEO; they'd clearly been chosen by a man with taste.

Stark glanced up when he entered, a look of blank surprise on his face. There was a pale, greyish cast to his face, and his eyes were bloodshot. The stress of the past two days was obviously taking its toll.

"I came to offer my sympathies," Hammer said, giving Stark a smile that he was sure had all the warmth of frostbite. He could be polite, but pretending to actually like the little brat was beyond him. "Who would have guessed that your bodyguard was capable of such a thing?" he went on, before Stark could respond. "I suppose SHIELD will find that someone was paying him off, or that the man simply snapped under the strain of being a superhero."

"SHIELD is handling the investigation." The secretary's voice came from behind him, loud and pointed. The woman had followed Hammer into the room, and was now standing by the doorway, one hand on her hip and a look of annoyance on her face. "They've requested that we not discuss it with the press, or with anyone else who isn't directly involved in the investigation."

"Of course, of course," Hammer said smoothly. "My mistake. I didn't mean to pry, but you can forgive a man some curiosity, I'm sure. I guess it just goes to show that superheroes don't make for the most reliable of employees." Neither did supervillains, in his experience. Once a man put on a mask and stared calling himself by a funny name, he tended to get above himself and forget who was holding the purse strings and giving the orders.

Not that that had happened with Iron Man, as far as he knew, but it had happened often enough in Hammer's experience with super-powered employees to be a trend.

"Such a shame you're having such trouble, Stark," Hammer went on. "Now that you've got all these legal trouble on your plate, all of those military and government contracts might prove too time-consuming and difficult to meet. Naturally, I'd be more than happy to take them off your hands."

Since he'd begun losing business to Stark Industries six months ago, Hammer had dreamed of the day he'd find himself standing in Stark's office with the tables turned. The reality was even sweeter than he'd imagined. Stark stared at him blankly, obviously too overwhelmed to even make an attempt at saving face. He had to know his company was on the verge of collapse, and was too shaken and defeated to even make an attempt at salvaging the situation.

"You can gloat on your own time, mister," the secretary snapped. "You might have so little business over at Hammer Industries that you can afford to spend half the day hanging around here, but we've got work to do. Happy, escort this gentleman out and see that he stops wasting Mr. Stark's time."

The doorway to Stark's office was suddenly filled by a tall, broad-shouldered individual who had "thug" written all over him; his flattened nose looked like it had been broken multiple times, and his suit fit him with an awkwardness that indicated a man not accustomed to wearing expensive business attire.

"With pleasure, Miss Potts," he said, eyeing Hammer with a sort of mournful dislike. He, like the employees in the hallway, had clearly seen the writing on the wall and knew that his days of steady employment were numbered.

Hammer offered the secretary his most charming smile. "You misunderstand me, Miss... Potts, was it? I simply came to offer Anthony here my condolences, as one businessman to another." They both knew that wasn't the case, but the forms had to be observed. "But as I can see that he's preoccupied, I'll see myself out."

"Good," Stark's thug said shortly. "You can come with me."

It was, Hammer sensed, time to leave before he overstayed his already thin welcome. He had come to see Stark's defeat for himself, not to get himself thrown out by Stark's bully boys.

Ah, well. He would be back.

Hammer could sense the bodyguard's lumbering presence behind him as he retraced his steps down the hall. This time, an engineer in a grease-stained lab coat looked up as he passed, presumably because of his hired-muscle escort. The engineer smirked at him.

Hammer marked the man's face, so that he would know who to fire first once he had absorbed the place into Hammer Industries.

He had won. Stark was on his way out, and he had no idea that Hammer had been the mastermind behind his downfall.

After weeks of trying to find himself an in at Stark Industries, Hammer had had the good luck to come across Dr. Birch, a physicist in SI's R&amp;D section who had been frustrated at his situation. Apparently, he'd nursed a growing resentment of Stark over the fact that the man's series of technical and scientific breakthroughs had stolen the limelight away from his own more modest scientific achievements.

It had been all to easy to convince Birch to sabotage Stark's equipment, and though that strategy had unfortunately come to dead end, thanks to Iron Man's interference, Birch, during his fight with Iron Man, had been able to observe Stark's armored bodyguard in action. Thanks to the apparently delayed reaction of one of the man's gauntlets, he had been able to use his own equipment to spot the armor's energy signal changing just before it fired.

Birch was in a cell on Rykers island now, but Hammer had paid him well, and he had kept his mouth shut about who had hired him, pretending the entire thing had been his idea. More importantly, he had passed along the information about the gauntlet.

A team of Hammer's best computer scientists had used the information to devised an electronic signal that could trigger the gauntlet to fire, though it only functioned at very close range. He had needed Heinrich Zemo's assistance to get a man in place in the Carñelian delegation, but since Vespugia stood to benefit considerably from Ambassador Larocca's death and the subsequent breakdown of US-Carñelian relations, El Presidente had been more than happy to oblige.

When the camera flash had gone off and the transmitter inside the camera had triggered Iron Man's gauntlet, Hammer had felt a sense of satisfaction that he'd previously only derived from closing billion-dollar business deals.

The fact that El Presidente Zemo now owed him a favor of considerable size was only the icing on the cake. Unlike Zemo, who in spite of all his ranting and threats hadn't so much as managed to touch Captain America, Hammer had now dealt with his major opponent.

Hammer climbed back into his limo with a light heart and the satisfying sense of a job well done. Howard Stark's spoiled brat of a son would be a thorn in his side no longer.

***

Hammer strode out of Tony's office as if he owned the place, which was a difficult feat to pull off when you were being escorted out of a building under guard. Tony had known that all of his business rivals had to be secretly celebrating the disaster his life had turned into, but none of the others had felt the need to actually come to his office in person to gloat.

Who actually did that? Who in the name of God did Hammer think he was, Montgomery Burns? Even Norman Osborn had contented himself with sending a smug email.

"I'm so sorry," Pepper said.

Hammer imported half his raw materials from Vespugia, and probably exported not a few weapons through them as well, including Fury's Latverian adamantium.

"He just burst in," Pepper went on, "and I-"

"It was him!" Tony surged to his feet, feeling energized for the first time in days. "That arrogant old--" he broke off, vocabulary temporarily failing him, and started to pace, too angry to keep still. It all fit together so neatly. Hammer and his Vespugian buddies frame Iron Man for Sergio's murder, all diplomatic relations between the US and Carñelia grind to a screeching halt, Carñelia's attempts to get the US to join in a trade embargo against Vespugia fall apart, and Hammer gets to continue to keep his costs low by buying cheap Vespugian metal ores and oil, meanwhile, Tony Stark and Stark Industries go down in flames, and Hammer gets the opportunity to puts in bids for all of those defense contracts again, including the SHIELD Helicarrier. There was no way in hell Fury was going to give that one to him, but Hammer wouldn't believe that, of course. "It has to be him!"

Pepper was staring at him, he realized. Tony forced himself to come to a halt, to stand still. He probably looked a little crazy right now, but he couldn't bring himself to care. The armor had been sabotaged. It wasn't something he had done.

"Mr. Stark," Pepper said, peering at him with obvious concern, "Tony, are you feeling all right?"

"He's involved up to his neck in Vespugian exports and he's trying to drive my company out of business," Tony explained, starting to pace again. It took four steps to go from his desk to the book case. Four steps in the other direction took him to the door of his workroom. "You heard him going on about all those contracts we took out from under him."

Pepper eyes widened as she picked up on his meaning. "You think he got to Iron Man somehow, bribed him to-"

"What?" Tony blinked at her, temporarily derailed. He knew Pepper wasn't crazy about Iron Man, but she couldn't actually think that he would take bribes from the likes of Justin Hammer, much less kill a man. "No! Of course not," he snapped. But Cap had believed he might have. "No," he said again, more quietly. "He sabotaged the armor somehow. Damn it, I still don't know how. Hold all my calls, Pep; I'll be in my workroom."

Pepper looked less than thrilled. Tony ignored her irritated expression, ducking quickly into his workroom and closing the door behind him. She generally looked like that when he made that kind of announcement.

Half an hour later, Tony's sudden burst of energy was gone, the dull headache he'd had all morning was back, and he was no closer to understanding what the hell Hammer had done to his armor than he'd been last night.

"He has to have done something!" Tony shouted, flinging a screwdriver against the wall with enough force that it bounced halfway across the room and skidded to a stop against the far edge of the lab bench. "What is it and how the hell did he do it?"

Approximately two seconds, Pepper's voice came over the intercom. "Mr. Stark, a reporter from the Daily Bugle wants to talk to you. For that matter, so do two of our main communications customers, not to mention half the board of directors."

"Tell them I'm busy," Tony snapped. He knew exactly what the board of directors would have to say to him; there was a reason he'd been avoiding them for the past day and a half.

He knew it was Hammer. It had to be Hammer. And that meant that Hammer's people had to have manipulated that gauntlet into firing somehow.

Tony's shoulders sagged, the brief surge of anger draining away as his earlier energy had. He stared dully at the disassembled repulsor apparatus, which remained stubbornly unbroken and un-altered in any fashion that he could discern.

Until he could find whatever Hammer had planted in his armor, or undo whatever had been done, there was no way he could wear it. Iron Man was off limits and he was stuck being plain old Tony Stark. And apparently he could even do that properly anymore.

He was supposed to be an engineering genius. There weren't supposed to be technological problems that he couldn't solve.

Tony sighed, and went to pick up the thrown screwdriver. Before he could return to his increasingly pointless work on the armor, he heard the hollow click of the intercom activating once more.

"Colonel Fury is on the phone, sir," Pepper informed him. "He wants to know, and I quote, 'What the hell is up with that god-damned fake armor you gave him.'"

"Oh," Tony said. "That." He had almost forgotten about Fury. He had expected to have figured out how the armor had been tampered with by this point, to have some kind of proof to hand Fury when he showed back up to demand an explanation, even if it was only proof of exactly how Tony had screwed up.

"Yes. That." Pepper said, voice absolutely level in a way that Tony knew spelled danger. "Tony, I like you, and you pay me very, very well, but one of my new career goals is to not end up testifying in front of a grand jury. My mother would never let me live it down."

"Don’t worry, if it gets that far, I'll probably be extradited to Carñelia anyway." He'd meant it to be a joke, but it probably came out sounding bitterer than he'd intended. A joke or two at his own expense was usually an effective distraction from questions he didn't want to answer, but the charming playboy act was getting a lot harder to pull off these days. It took more energy than he currently had.

"You know, I hear Oscorp is hiring these days."

Pepper sounded dead serious, but Tony knew it was a joke, because if she'd truly meant it, she would have named Rand Corporation, or some other company whose president she didn't actively hate. He couldn't help but feel pathetically grateful that she was letting him get away with shifting the conversation onto lighter ground.

"But do they have a dental plan?" he asked, forcing himself to sound as if this were any one of the many times Pepper had threatened to leave him for another employer, as if the possibility of Tony standing trial for Sergio's murder were no more serious than the time she had walked into his office and caught him and Veronica Vogue in flagrante delicto.

"An excellent one," she informed him solemnly. There was a long pause, while Tony tried to think of something clever to say in return, and failed utterly. Then she sighed, and when she spoke again, the solemnity in her voice was real. "This isn't a joke, Tony. SHIELD engineers say that the armor you turned over to Fury doesn't have enough circuitry in it to operate independently, so unless Iron Man is actually a robot that you operate by remote control, which they're not ruling out, by the way, you gave them a stripped-"

"Remote control!" It was so obvious. Tony could feel his whole body stiffening, a flash of his long-lost energy suddenly returning. Why hadn't he seen it? "Oh my God, I'm an idiot. Thanks, Pep. Remind me to give you a raise."

"What about Fury?" Pepper failed to sound mollified at the prospect of a raise.

"Stall him another day or so, can you?" Tony said, already returning his attention to the armor. If Hammer's people had somehow found a way to trigger his gauntlet remotely...

"What am I supposed to do when the SHIELD agents come to arrest you?" Pepper's voice broke in on his thoughts once again.

Theory wasn't enough, though. He needed proof.

Hammer was too arrogant, too self-confident, to cover his tracks completely. If he were the kind of man who took pains to eliminate all electronic and physical evidence, he wouldn't have come here to gloat.

If Tony could get into Hammer's office, into his files, he'd be able to find the proof he needed. He was sure he would. But if he was going to do that without the armor, he was going to need some way to defend himself in the event that he was caught. He couldn't ask anyone else to accompany him, not when he was planning to illegally break into Hammer's office and hack his computer, but might, he acknowledged reluctantly, be time to ask for help.

Tony shrugged, though he knew she couldn't see it. Fury wouldn't send agents to bring him in for at least another twelve hours; he needed to act quickly, but he wasn't completely out of tine yet. "Tell them it was Justin Hammer. I'll have proof for them by then."

The gauntlets' firing mechanism was activated by an electromagnetic signal triggered by Tony's subvocalised command -- or by the manual override he'd build in just in case -- and transmitted to the gauntlet via a series of electrical impulses. If Hammer had somehow learned the applicable energy signatures, he might have been able to broadcast a signal that mimicked the armor's internal commands. If it was close range, and powerful enough...

  
***

  
"I thought I told you to go and rest."

Stark might have vanished from the mansion yesterday, but looking at him now, Steve doubted that he'd actually gone home and gotten some sleep, as Steve had suggested. His suit was neatly pressed and he had clearly remembered to shave this morning, which put him one up on the last time Steve had seen him, but the dark circles under his eyes were still there.

"I did," Stark said. "Look, Cap, I... came to ask a favor."

Steve blinked, feeling himself start to frown. What kind of a favor could Tony Stark possibly want from him? He'd promised to call Stark if SHIELD told the Avengers anything new about their investigation, but he and the others had heard nothing from Nick since he'd confiscated Iron Man's armor.

He'd made his suspicions of Stark plain the last time they had spoken -- more plain than he really felt comfortable with, now that he was face to face with the other man again. He owed Tony Stark a great deal, and while he couldn't afford to ignore the possibility that Stark had been responsible for the Carñelian ambassador's death... looking at him now, he didn't look like a man who would use a friend to commit cold blooded, calculated murder.

He looked like a soldier who'd been in combat too long. Steve had seen too many men stretched almost to the breaking point, men who jumped at small sounds, men whose hands shook, who jerked awake gasping from nightmares, who couldn't relax even when they were faraway from the front. Stark had the same sort of look in his eyes now, like it wouldn't take much to push him over the edge.

"What kind of favor?" Steve asked.

"You may have noticed that I'm minus a bodyguard at the moment," Stark said, lips twitching into a rueful smile that was gone almost before it formed. "And considering how many people out there don't like me, I wouldn't mind knowing how to look after myself a little better."

Meaning what? Steve gave Stark a careful, considering look. As far as Steve could tell, he appeared to be unarmed, and since Bucky had been adept at hiding surprisingly large blades inside his clothing with barely a wrinkle or bulge in sight, Steve was good at spotting that sort of thing.

"I'm not going to hire a new bodyguard while Iron Man is," Stark hesitated, "away. Talk about a vote of no confidence." He shook his head, the motion causing a piece of hair to fall down across his forehead. "I wouldn't do that to him."

Steve offered him a smile for that. It made him think better of the man, that he wanted to avoid making any gestures to distance himself from Iron Man, despite the fact that he had to know that it would go better for him with the press if he did. Apparently, Stark stuck by his employees, and his friends, even when they were wanted for murder.

"I could give you a crash course in self-defense, if you want," he suggested. It was he least he could do, given that he'd been living in the man's house for a month.

"I'd... like that," Stark said, offering Steve another faint twitch of a smile. "Actually, that was the favor I was going to ask you for."

Some fifteen minutes later, the two of them were facing one across a wide expanse of mat in the Avengers' gym. Stark had traded his suit for sweatpants and an over-sized blue t-shirt with "MIT" written across the front. Steve had never seen him out of a suit and tie before; it made him look younger, like some college boy who ought to be taking sorority girls out on dates rather than the billionaire head of a major corporation worrying about threats on his life.

Steve himself was in his costume, complete with mask, but he'd left his shield leaning against the wall when he'd come in. He wasn't going to need it for this.

"Go ahead," he told Stark, as he shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, bringing his hands up in preparation for whatever Stark might be about to do. "Give it your best shot."

Stark's punch was clearly telegraphed, but his form was better than Steve had expected. It didn't do him any good, though, because Steve leaned sideways, out of the path of Stark's fist, grabbed Stark by the wrist and upper arm, and flipped him over his shoulder and into the gym wall.

Stark slide down the wall to the floor and sat there, blinking up at Steve, looking dazed and considerably impressed.

"That's your first lesson," he told Stark, doing his best not to sound smug. This was more fun than he'd expected. "If anyone offers you a sucker punch, they've probably got a reason. Don't fall for it."

"Right," Stark wheezed. "Noted." He climbed to his feet again, wincing slightly, and Steve made a mental note to use a little less force for the rest of the lesson. Stark was new at this, and he didn't have the benefit of supersoldier serum enhancing his endurance.

"Okay," Steve said. "First, we're going to teach you how to take a fall. You tensed up before you hit the wall. You don't want to do that; it makes the impact worse."

"I know, I know." Stark rotated his neck carefully, then stretched, like a man checking to see that everything was in proper working order. "Happy's told me that a dozen times. But you try not to tense when you're suddenly airborne with plaster coming at your face."

Steve raised his eyebrows.

Stark made a face. "Fine. You're perfect. Let's move on."

Stark was, overall, better than Steve had expected. He was in decent shape, for one. Actually, more than decent shape. He was on the thin side, yes, but there was solid muscle in his arms that must have been from welding, something all of those button down shirts and suit jackets usually concealed.

For another, someone had taught him at least the basics of boxing; he knew how to throw a punch. What he didn't seem to know was how to dodge one.

It wasn't until third time Stark took one of Steve's blows full on, without so much as trying to deflect it or move out of the way, that Steve realized what he was doing. He was trying to absorb the blow without flinching and catch Steve off guard while he was still off balance from throwing the punch (or, the third time, kick). It was something Steve had seen Thor do multiple times, something he'd seen Iron Man do as well, though it frequently resulted in Iron Man getting the stuffing beaten out of him, since even in the armor, he didn't have Thor's mass.

Stark, without either mass and partial invulnerability or armor, had even less success with this tactic than his bodyguard did.

"You've picked up a bad habit from your bodyguard," Steve told him, as he helped Stark to his feet again. "Both of you need to learn some self-preservation."

Stark frowned, straightening his shirt. Steve found himself idly wishing that he would just take it off, rather than continually trying to keep the fabric from getting rucked up or twisted. It was almost as if he were trying to hide his upper body, though there was nothing wrong with it as far as Steve could tell. Was he embarrassed by the fact that he didn't have rippling biceps or a perfect set of flat, defined stomach muscles? This was Tony Stark; surely he knew exactly how attractive he was?

The few glimpses he got of Stark's shoulder blades, of the curve of his back, of the edges of his collarbones, which peeked over the neckline of the shirt when he moved just right, were more distracting than they ought to have been. It was a shame the sweatpants were so loose.

Most men, he knew, didn't enjoy looking at other men, unless they were the sort who were given blue discharges for sexual misconduct. Steve had never been most men, but since the U.S. Army didn't care what kind of pin-ups you liked to look as long as they never caught you doing anything, he'd never had any trouble over it.

Steve had always avoided the issue by never doing anything but look. Girls might be significantly more intimidating and often, not quite as interesting once you stopped talking and started kissing, but they didn't draw attention to you. Well, not that he'd done much more than look with women, either, but there had been that one time in Paris with the Howling Commandos, a few French girls, and a lot of alcohol. That had been a lot of fun, especially the next morning, when Steve had been the only one who remembered everything that had happened the previous night. Marie-Rose had been very nice, very pretty, and able to keep a completely straight face when she backed up Steve's assertion that he'd seen Dum-Dum Dugan dipping Nick Fury in the middle of a drunken waltz to plant a kiss squarely on his sergeant's lips.

Nick still didn't know that Steve had made it up.

Stark tried a kick this time, and Steve hooked a foot around his ankle and sent him tumbling to the mat. This time, Stark landed properly, rolled, and came up in a crouch, left hand held up toward Steve, palm out. It was a gesture that was teasingly familiar, but before Steve could place it, Stark looked at his hand, blinked, and let it drop, climbing back to his feet and shifting into a defensive stance.

His dark hair was disheveled and damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead, his chest was heaving as he panted for breath, and he was grinning widely, the same grin he'd worn when he told Steve about his plans to build SHIELD a flying aircraft carrier. "That's what I have a bodyguard for," he said, panting slightly, "and what Iron Man has armor for."

"Well," Steve told him, "until you get your bodyguard back," if he got his bodyguard back; if Iron Man was actually guilty, neither Stark nor Steve would be working with him again, "that's what you're here to learn."

Stark's grin faltered, and Steve found himself wishing he could take the words back. Now that they had both been reminded of the reason behind this sparring lesson, the fun seemed to go out of things.

"Right," Steve said, pushing the unwanted thoughts aside, "now I'm going to teach you something a little bit more exotic than a right hook."

Stark raised his eyebrows. "You do realize that that thing where you kick your feet higher than your head is not something that most of us are ever going to be able to do, no matter how much we practice?"

Steve shook his head. "No, what I'm going to show you is how to fight when you're up against someone who physically out-classes you, which is going to be just about anybody that someone's hired to come after you, because they're going to be professionals." And Stark wasn't exactly bulky.

Stark picked up the couple of judo moves Steve showed him much more quickly than he had how to fall properly. "It's all about leverage and momentum," he said, when Steve pointed this out, "which are some of the basic building blocks of mechanical design. I'm good at that kind of thing."

Steve climbed to his feet -- he'd allowed Stark to throw him, so that he could learn how it was done -- and straightened. He could feel himself grinning again. He hadn't been able to do this, spar with somebody like this, in far too long.

Stark was on one knee on the matt, head down; as Steve watched, a drop of sweat fell from the ends of his hair to land on the matt. He drew in a deep breath, then stood, wincing visibly at the movement.

"I think we're done for today," Steve said. Stark seemed more than ready to keep going, but it wouldn't do to overdo things on his first lesson. If Steve was being honest with himself, they probably ought to have quit a good fifteen minutes ago, but he'd been enjoying himself, and had allowed the lesson to go on longer than he otherwise might have; Stark had finally been allowing himself to relax again.

"My bruises are grateful," Stark said, with the self-deprecating little half smile that Steve had initially thought looked like a smirk. "I don't imagine you get much call for this sort of thing. No one out-classes you."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that." Steve offered him a grin, and handed him a towel. "I ran into a few German ex-boxers during the war who were built like Panzer tanks, including one guy that I'm pretty sure was actually a troll."

Stark's not-quite-smirk widened a little, turning into something honestly amused. He thought Steve was joking.

"He was green," Steve added.

"I'm not doubting you, but in my experience, that's usually a side-effect of radiation, not of being some kind of mythical creature." Stark buried his face in the towel, wiping away the sweat. "Thanks for the lesson," he added, the words slightly muffled by the cloth. "I'm sure it will come in handy under the current circumstances." He looked back up at Steve, amusement gone now. "Before Iron Man can come back, I have to figure out what's going on. It's too bad real life isn't like a Sherlock Holmes story, where everything has a logical solution and all I'd have to do to figure it all out would be to notice a set of suspicious scratches on someone's cufflinks."

"Things are never that easy." Real life, in Steve's experience, was always considerably messier than fiction. Life didn't have to have a happy ending.

Iron Man was a Sherlock Holmes fan, too. He'd leant Steve one of Stark's old books on Steve's first night at the Mansion, a collection of Sherlock Holmes stories inscribed "Happy 8th birthday, Tony." He'd said it was one of his favorites. One more item on the growing list of things Iron Man and Stark had in common.

Stark was staring off into space now, shoulders slumped, the towel hanging forgotten in one hand. "God, I hope it's all over soon," he said, softly. "I don't think I've gotten any real sleep since all of this started." The smile he flashed Steve was the same painful one he'd worn when Fury had come to confiscate the armor. "Though with the workout you've given me, maybe I'll be tired enough tonight that I'll actually be able to get some rest." He had that haunted, strained look in his eyes again, the one that reminded Steve of soldiers with battle fatigue.

"Doing something helps," Steve offered. "Sitting around and thinking just makes it worse."

Another attempt at a smile. "I guess those dreams about your partner are still keeping you up nights, too, huh?"

Stark knew about the nightmares? How the hell did Stark know about the nightmares? He'd told him about Bucky, but he'd only mentioned the guilt, not the dreams. The only person he'd spoken to about those was Iron Man. He couldn't very well deny that he was having them, though. Not when it was true, not when Stark obviously already knew.

"I can hear him yelling my name while I fall. I didn't really, but when I dream about it, I always do." It was strange to hear himself admitting it, especially here, to this man. Even stranger that it didn't feel awkward or uncomfortable. He liked Stark, but he'd never expected to find himself comfortable enough with him to admit to something so personal. Something that might make Stark, a man whose goodwill he was currently dependant on, think less of him.

Stark clearly didn't think less of him, though. He'd brought the nightmares up himself, as much as admitted to having some of his own. Iron Man must have mentioned them to him, unless... he couldn't imagine that Iron Man would have told anyone what Steve had confided in him during those late-night conversations, not even Stark.

Iron Man was left-handed, too. That moment, earlier, when Stark had flung up his left hand in front of him, palm out -- he'd seen Iron Man do that in fights more times than he could easily recall. That's why it had seemed familiar, and also why it had seemed slightly strange. It wasn't a normal defensive move from someone fighting bare-handed. It was the move of someone wearing a repulsor gauntlet.

He had to be jumping to conclusions. Stark couldn't actually be... Stark was staring at him, frowning, a concerned look on his face.

Steve looked away, rubbing uneasily at the back of his neck, and hoping that Stark couldn't tell what he was thinking. "If I could just get my hands on Heinrich Zemo..." he said, deliberately returning his attention to the conversation and not the suspicion suddenly filling his thoughts. They'd sworn not to ask about one another's secret identities, though admittedly, Iron Man was the only one who had one. "He's the reason we were on that plane in the first place." As distractions for himself worked, it was a good one. He could still see the gloating look on Zemo's face, just before the plane took off. If there were any justice in the world, Baron von Zemo would have been the one to perish in that explosion, not Bucky. It had been his plan, his explosives, his fault that Bucky had never gotten to see the end of the war, never gotten to go home. "But the war's been over for decades. I don't even know what happened to him in the end."

Stark shrugged. "Considering how many war crimes as he committed, he must have been dealt with years ago." He glanced down at the towel in his hand, seeming to notice it for the first time since the conversation had started. "I should go take a shower and get out of here before Fury comes calling."

Steve didn't want to know why Stark wanted to avoid Nick. If Stark told him, and Nick did in fact come looking for him, Steve would be obligated to pass the information along. Technically, he ought to mention his suspicions, too. Iron Man was officially a fugitive from justice.

If Stark was really Iron Man, Steve decided, there was no way he could be guilty. He was too obviously shaken by what had happened. True cold-blooded killers weren't haunted by their crimes. Steve had met enough to know.

Stark was at the door now, about to leave the room.

"I want you to know," Steve started, and Stark stopped, turned to look at him, and Steve suddenly realized that he wasn't really sure what he'd been about to say. "I, um, want you to know that you've got my full support if you need anything, and," he hesitated, unsure if he should continue, but then decided that it needed to be said even if he was right, maybe especially then, "tell Iron Man that I've still got his back."

Stark closed his eyes for a second, face twisting, then his expression smoothed out again. "Thank you, Cap," he said, voice rough. "You don't know how much -- I'll tell him that."

He looked... relieved. An open, raw relief that Steve didn't think Iron Man was guilty. That look confirmed Steve's suspicions. No one was that relieved to hear that you didn't think their employee was guilty of murder.

It explained so much; why Stark and Iron Man both talked with their hands, why Iron Man knew so much about Stark Industries technology, why Stark knew little things like how Steve took his coffee despite having spent comparatively little time around him. He'd eaten breakfast with Iron Man more than once.

Iron Man, like Stark, never had anything but coffee. Steve had initially thought that that was because he wouldn't be able to eat without taking off his helmet -- he'd drunk the coffee through a straw -- but now he knew better.

Tony Stark was Iron Man. Tony Stark was the man he'd been talking to when he couldn't sleep, sharing his past with, the one who shared Steve's taste in radio shows, the one who'd introduced him to the _Lord of the Rings_ and taught him how to make the Avengers communications equipment work and...

"Mr. Stark," he said, trying to keep his new knowledge out of his voice, "at this point I think you might as well call me Steve."

Stark smiled at him, a real smile this time, and held out a hand. "In that case, forget the Mr. Stark business. Call me Tony."

Steve took the offered hand, shaking it solemnly. "I'll see you this time next week, Tony. For lesson number two."

Tony nodded, still smiling, though a trace of that haunted look still remained in his eyes. "Count on it."

***


	3. Chapter 3

Cap believed -- _Steve_ believed that he was innocent. Really believed it, unlike yesterday, when he'd obviously doubted Tony's word. He had no idea what had changed Steve's mind, but the relief of knowing that he still had Steve's trust was almost staggering.

It was ridiculous that someone else's opinion of him, or Iron Man, mattered that much to him. Tony knew he was innocent, and with the amount of evidence against him, he should have expected everyone to suspect. He'd thought he was culpable, too, for a while; he couldn't expect anyone else to think any differently. And yet his fellow Avengers' doubts and mistrust -- Steve's mistrust -- had hurt.

Tony showered and dressed as quickly as he could. He had an appointment at Hammer Industries at three o' clock.

Fury had figured out that the armor Tony had tried to distract him with was a fake, and he probably wasn't going to have more than a few hours before someone from SHIELD tracked him down and arrested him. Only a few hours left to clear his name and gather evidence against Hammer. The self-defense lesson had cost him time, but knowing that Steve still respected him, still believed in him, was more than worth it. And anyway, Hammer had refused to schedule an earlier appointment, and Tony had needed to do something in the interim. Once he'd finished preparing for his visit to Hammer's office, there'd been nothing else left to at SI but sit around and drink and watch his company's stock drop, and that would have felt too much like admitting defeat.

Hammer's closest manufacturing plant was in New Jersey, but his main office was in downtown Manhattan. He was a businessman, pure and simple, not an engineer; he didn't need to be on-hand at his factory every day.

Tony drove down in the red Maserati; if he was going to confront Hammer, he might as well do it in style. Plus, the Maserati was smaller than the Ferrari, which let him weave between cars and shave a few minutes off the driving time. The Porsche handled better, but Hammer didn't merit the Porsche. Plus, if Happy ever found out that Tony had taken the Porsche through Manhattan at this time of day, he'd kill him.

There was a parking spot reserved for him in the building's garage, and a man in a well-tailored grey suit who exuded an air of polished blandness was waiting by the front desk to escort him to Hammer's office, but once there, he was unceremoniously ushered inside and told to wait. "Mr. Hammer is a very busy man," he was informed. "He's in a meeting right now, but he'll be in to see you at his earliest convenience."

Sean Chen had been Hammer's executive assistant for at least five years, going back to the days when Tony's father had still been running SI. He had long since mastered the art of smiling politely while letting you know exactly how unimportant you were.

Hammer's office was all massive wooden furniture and padded leather chairs, everything designed to make visitors feel small. It was like stepping into Howard Stark's old office, and made Tony feel about fourteen, as if he'd were waiting to be subjected to another lecture on how much of a disappointment he was.

Chen shut the door, leaving Tony alone in the office, and he breathed a small sigh of relief. Things were going better than he had had any right to hope for.

This part of the plan had been the biggest gamble. He had expected that Hammer would leave him to cool his heels for a suitable portion of time before seeing him -- that was the kind of thing Hammer did -- but there had been no guarantee that he would be left to wait in Hammer's office. Tony could just as easily have been ushered into some conference room, or made to wait outside by Chen's desk. Or even made to stand around by the front desk in the lobby, if Hammer wanted the attempt to humiliate him to be especially blatant. Any of those outcomes would have rendered the first half of Tony's plan null and void.

After a quick glance around the room to make certain that there were no security cameras -- there were none, of course, not here, where Hammer would have needed privacy to arrange his attempt to ruin Tony's life -- Tony reached for one of the knobs on the side of his watch, gave it a quarter turn, and pulled out the miniaturized flash memory stick concealed inside it.

The watch had taken Tony hours to put together; inside it was a tiny digital recording device, triggered by pressing one of the little metal buttons that, on a normal watch, would have adjusted the hour hand. It held nearly a gigabyte of data, and its flash memory drive could be removed and plugged into a computer's USB port.

The watch had been sitting around his workshop, half assembled, for weeks, and had been exactly what he needed to gather what dirt there was to find on Hammer; he'd gotten the idea from a Bond movie, though in that, it had been a camera.

Hacking into Hammer's computer was the work of minutes. Infiltrating Hammer Industries' network would have taken longer, but luckily for Tony, Hammer had been paranoid enough that he hadn't trusted his confidential data to a multi-user network. The information Tony was looking for was on his hard drive.

Well, some of it. He dredged up file after file documenting Hammer's business dealings with the president of Vespugia, including the sale of several hundred pounds of adamantium, in direct violation of the NATO agreement that forbade American manufacturers to sell adamantium to non-NATO countries.

Tony saved read-only copies of all of it to the flash drive, as he continued to scroll through Hammer's files. There was nothing about the Carnelian ambassador, nothing that he could use to clear his name, but more than enough to see Hammer indicted on at least half a dozen criminal charges, several of them federal.

Once he inserted the flash drive back into the watch, the data would all be automatically sent to Pepper's email account via an uplink to one of SI's communication satellites. Even if his upcoming confrontation with Hammer went badly, the information on Hammer's illegal activities would still get to SHIELD.

Tony finished saving copies of the files, removed the flash drive, and returned it to its place in his watch. He'd just felt it click back into place when the office door opened and Hammer stepped in.

Hammer, froze in the doorway, staring at Tony bent over his personal computer. There was absolutely no way to deny that he'd been going through the man's data.

"Chen," Hammer said calmly, "get me special security. Tell them there's a problem to be dealt with."

Tony gave Hammer his most obnoxious grin. He might as well brazen it out. "I've just been reading all about how much money you've made selling things to Vespugia," he said brightly. "Machine guns, anti-tank missiles, adamantium--"

"It appears I've underestimated you," Hammer interrupted. "You have a spine after all. Sadly, I seem to have over-estimated your intelligence."

Tony kept his smirk in place. "As you've probably figured out, I'm not here to beg you to buy out my company while it's still solvent. I've got everything I need to make sure that you go to jail for a long time. Or at least spend a very long time in court and a fortune in legal fees. It's going to make it hard for you to meet all of your current contracts, but SI will be happy to take them off your hands."

"Blackmail?" Hammer raised an eyebrow. "Crude, but effective. Your father would be proud of you." Three large security guards, armed with handguns, appeared in the doorway behind him and advanced on Tony.

"You framed me, you sonuvabitch," Tony spat, anger suddenly filling him with restless heat. He should have been afraid, he knew. He was unarmed and armor-less while Hammer's men had guns, and their employer had more than proven his willingness to have people killed. At the moment, however, he couldn't bring himself to care. When he closed his eyes, he could still see Sergei's body. "Maybe I can't get you put in jail for murder, like you deserve, but I can at least make sure you go to jail for something."

"Well, well," Hammer said, offering Tony a smile that held no warmth whatsoever, "it seems you're smarter than I had given you credit for, after all. Unfortunately for you and fortunately for me, not smart enough. It should have occurred to you that coming here to accuse me was not a wise idea. The successful businessman never challenges a competitor on his own turf. My security personnel are now going to relieve you of any weapons you might have tried to bring with."

The guards patted him quickly and professionally, finding no weapons, of course, because there were no weapons to find. Luckily, they didn't notice anything unusual about his watch; the recording device was still safe, busily saving Hammer's every word for posterity. That was the second part of the plan; getting Hammer to incriminate himself on tape.

Tony had been a little vague on how he was going to accomplish the third part of the plan, the part where he got himself back out of Hammer Industries alive. As one of the guards pocketed Tony's cell phone, it occurred to him that this might have been a mistake on his part.

"Who figured out the proper energy signal to trigger Iron Man's gauntlet for you?" Tony asked, throttling back his anger to try and match Hammer's casual tone. "I know there's no way you did it."

Hammer's smile widened a fraction. "That may have been one of the most elegant parts of all of this. One of your own employees sold you out. My people got the information from Dr. Birch, after his little escapade as the Phantom."

And just like that, Tony had everything he needed to clear his name. It would be a shame if he never got the chance to enjoy his upcoming freedom from murder charges. "I thought it might be something like that," he said. He'd suspected that Hammer's information had to have come from someone inside SI. It would have been next to impossible for someone to acquire the necessary information about the armor otherwise. At least it was someone who'd already proven himself untrustworthy; he'd been afraid Hammer would reveal that it had been someone still employed at SI, someone he trusted.

"How did you transmit the signal?" Tony asked, more for his own curiosity than for the record. Knowing that would make things easier when he redesigned the gauntlets to ensure that this could never happen again.

"The Vespugians had a man inside the Carnelian delegation, and they were more than happy to provide me with assistance." Hammer pulled a silver cigarette case out of his inside jacket pocket -- the same pocket Tony occasionally kept a flask in -- and withdrew a cigarette from it, before tucking the case back inside his suit coat. "El Presidente Zemo owes me a rather large favor now," he finished with a smile, lighting his cigarette.

Zemo was the name of the German officer who'd been responsible for Steve spending sixty years on ice. It couldn't possibly be the same man, Tony thought. Not after this many years. "Zemo, huh? That doesn't sound Hispanic." He nodded at Hammer's cigarette. "I though this building was a no smoking zone. I'm sure I saw a sign about it down in the lobby."

"It's not," Hammer said. "Heinrich Zemo is a German. Washed up in South America after the war, I believe, but being a resourceful man, he did quite well for himself."

The president of Vespugia was a Nazi war criminal? Tony knew he was probably gaping blankly at Hammer, and tried to school his face into a look of studied boredom to match the one the other man wore. Inside, however, his mind was racing. Hammer was in league with one of Steve's old enemies, and said enemy was not only still around but in a position of international power.

The men who had attacked the Avengers outside SHIELD's barbershop had spoken Spanish. Zemo must have sent them after Steve.

Steve needed to hear this. Tony shifted his weight slightly, readying himself. He had what he'd come for; it was time to get out of here now.

"I don't suppose you have any other questions, Stark?" Hammer drawled.

"Actually, I do." Tony could feel his lips stretching into a grin, the surge of manic energy he'd felt when he'd realized that Hammer had been the one behind everything returning. "I was wondering if your guard here knows what a clavicle is?"

The nearest of the three guards blinked at him. "Huh?" he said intelligently.

Tony hit him, hard, using the side of his hand in imitation of one of the Mandarin's karate blows, but throwing all of his weight behind it the way Steve had shown him. The man's collarbone made a satisfying cracking sound. "Surprise! It's what I just broke."

The man went to his knees, clutching at his shoulder and gagging from the pain. Tony began to turn to face the next guard, when he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye.

The handle of the third guard's gun cracked into the side of his head, and Tony's legs abruptly stopped holding him up. The last thing he saw before he passed out was Hammer smirking at him.

  
***

Steve was right. He did need to learn how to duck.

This was the second time in as many days that he'd woken up on the floor with a blinding headache. This floor, however, was not the one in his workroom. That one was concrete. This one was polished wood.

Tony groaned, and put a hand to the side of his head, where the pain was the worst, wincing when his fingers encountered a hot, swollen ache that was going to become a bruise. He was lucky that guard hadn't cracked his skull open.

His watch, when he squinted at it, read 6:17. He'd been out for about two hours.

Tony sat up carefully; the world stayed put around him, and his vision was clear. The one time he'd known for sure that he'd had a concussion, after Titanium Man had thrown him through the side of a building, he'd been too dizzy to stand, and everything around him had been blurred out of focus. He probably didn't have one now. At least, not a major one.

Hammer's security guards had dumped him in a conference room, which had been hastily stripped of most of its furniture; the conference table that should have filled the middle of the room was gone, but the scuff marks on the floor where its legs had stood were still visible.

Whomever had stripped the room had taken the chairs, too, but had left the abstract oil painting on the far wall, as well as the dark wooden sideboard and cabinet underneath it. The cabinet was built into the wall, which was probably why it was still there; Tony must not be important enough for Hammer to destroy a conference room on his behalf.

The doors, of course, were locked. He hadn't expected anything else.

He rattled the door handle anyway, and said, loudly, "You know, the accommodations here leave something to be desired."

"Don't worry," returned a voice from the other side of the door, the sound muffled by the wood. "You're not going to be staying here long."

Right. The door was guarded. He might as well scratch any attempts to pick the lock.

A brief check revealed that the guards had completely emptied his pockets, so lock picking would have been impossible anyway. They'd also taken his shoes, maybe out of fear that he'd secretly hidden explosives in them, the way airport security checkpoints were convinced people might have.

Airport security really didn't appreciate it when you accidentally left welding tools in your pockets. That was one of the reasons he'd started flying on his own private jets.

They'd probably taken anything that might be useful out of the cabinet, but he couldn't afford to overlook the possibility that they'd missed something.

The sideboard was bare except for an ornate lamp with an ugly cream shade -- it had gold tassels on it -- and a set of heavy crystal glasses, almost identical to the set his father had kept in his office.

The cabinet, however, was not bare. Tony opened it to find an impressive collection of middling quality alcohol.

Tony sighed, feeling something in his stomach sink. Now that he'd exhausted all immediate avenues of escape, he was forced to confront the fact that there was a very good chance he wasn't going to be walking out of here.

Hammer didn't know that the data from his computer and the recording of his conversation with Tony had already been sent to Pepper's email address, where she would be sure to find them first thing tomorrow morning, as soon as she got to work. From Hammer's perspective, he couldn't afford to let Tony go, because then Tony would go straight to SHIELD, the police, and the press, and his secret dealings with Nazi war criminals would be national news, as would his role in the assassination of a foreign diplomat.

Keeping him prisoner long-term wasn't feasible; even aside from the fact that it would add kidnapping to Hammer's list of federal charges, Tony Stark's disappearance would not go unnoticed for long.

If he were smart, he would have designed his watch so that it could send text messages, too, or possibly trigger the Avengers priority alert and then act as a homing beacon.

If he were really smart, he would have told someone about his plans to come here. As it was, no one was going to know where he was until tomorrow morning, when Pepper checked his email. He hadn't even had a date lined up for tonight, since he'd been too distracted to bother with that kind of thing since the embassy, so no one was going to notice anything amiss when he failed to show up for a social engagement.

Pepper got into work at seven forty-five, and checked her email at seven fifty. Justin Hammer would be a wanted man by eight o' clock tomorrow morning.

Tony would be dead long before then.

If nothing else, he thought, staring at the assortment of scotch, vodka, and gin arrayed in front of him, he might as well have a drink on Hammer first.

He poured himself a single malt scotch, filling one of Hammer's fancy glasses to the brim, and held the glass up to the light.

At least they'd left the table lamp, so he wasn't spending his final hours drinking in the dark. That really would have been depressing.

They'd left the table lamp.

Tony glanced from the lamp to the bottles of high proof alcohol and smiled. It wasn't the armor, but considering the time factor and how little he had to work with, it would do.

When removed from the lamp and doused with alcohol, the lampshade burned even better than he had hoped. He even managed not to electrocute himself when he broke open the light bulb and used the white-hot filament inside to start the fire.

Tony poured the bottle of tonic water onto the floor directly in front of the door, and waited for the burning lampshade to set the smoke alarm off.

He didn't have to wait long.

The fire alarm's shrill wail was piericing, and didn't do Tony's headache any good, but the response was almost immediate; the door burst open and a hulking guard whom Tony recognized as one of the three men from Hammer's office came running in. One of his feet immediately slid on the puddle of tonic water, and he went crashing to the floor with a look of stupid surprise on his face. Tony tossed the broken-but-still-plugged-in lamp into the puddle of water, and the guard twitched once before going limp.

Tony counted to ten, slowly, long enough to make sure the guard was either actually unconscious or faking it really well, then yanked the lamp cord out of the wall socket.

He had just disarmed the guard and was in the process of straightening up, gun in hand, when a second guard rushed in, also familiar from those brief minutes in Hammer's office.

He saw the gun in Tony's hand, which was now aimed steadily at his torso, and stopped dead.

"Take your gun out, drop it on the floor, and kick it over here," Tony said. He was surprised by how even his voice sounded, as if he was having a casual chat with the man. "Your cell phone and any other communications equipment, too."

The guard proved himself smarter than Tony had given him credit for. He did as he was bid, eyes fixed firmly on Tony's gun.

Tony kicked the second gun, the cell phone, and the pocket two-way radio behind him, out of the way, then nodded at the man. "Sit down, on the floor. Away from your buddy there. Wouldn't want your clothes to get wet."

The guard sat obediently, holding his hands up in surrender. "What the hell did you do to him?" he asked, indicating his unconscious comrade with his chin

"Electrocuted him with the lamp," Tony said. "Don't worry. He's not dead. There wasn't enough current for that."

The guard gaped at him. "Electrocuted him with..."

Tony smirked. "Haven't you heard? I'm Tony Stark. The last time somebody kidnapped me, I built a weapon out of scrap metal and blew up his entire base of operations. But that's not important. The important thing is that I have a gun and you don't. It's not as good as the ones I used to make, of course, but a .33 caliber bullet's still going to make a nice-sized hole in your kneecap."

The guard was staring at him now. He actually looked frightened. The fire alarm was still blaring in the background; Tony wished it would stop.

"Look, man, we were just doing what Hammer-"

"Tell me," Tony interrupted, "what exactly were you and your buddy there planning to do to me? I mean, you certainly can't let me go at this point, thanks to your boss blabbing his entire evil plan at me, and you can't keep me here forever."

"We were supposed to make it look like a car crash," the guard said. His eyes still hadn't left the gun. "Shoot you up with a syringe full of alcohol, break your neck, and stick you in that fancy sports car of yours. Then, when the cops found it wrapped around a lamp post, they'd have written it off as a drunk driving accident. I mean," he added, speaking a little faster, "everyone knows about your old man. Like father, like son, right?" He attempted a smile.

Did he actually think Tony was going to laugh at his stupid attempt at a joke and be less likely to shoot him? There'd never been any proof that alcohol had been involved in the car accident that had killed his parents, and the official cause of the accident had been a brake malfunction, but Tony knew his father. The rumors that Howard Stark had been drinking before getting behind the wheel that night were probably true, but they certainly weren't funny.

"And you spoke nice and clear for the hidden digital recorder, too," Tony said brightly. The he hit the guard over the head with the butt of the gun. Whoever had said that revenge was a dish best served cold had been wrong; watching the guard slump to the floor was very satisfying.

Tony didn't run into a single soul on his way out of the building, which seemed too good to be true. Where the hell were Hammer and Chen and everybody else who should have been here? It was after six, true, but a place like Hammer Industries never really shut down, anymore than SI did. There should at the very least have been custodial staff.

Not that he was going to complain. His goal was to get out of here without getting caught again or actually having to shoot somebody.

His car probably wasn't safe; for all he knew they'd already rigged it to crash, or had somebody waiting by it for when Hammer's people had his dead body brought out.

Tony hit the street outside, the sidewalk hard under his sock-clad feet, and used the second guard's cell phone to call Happy. Then he hid the gun inside his suit coat; the last thing he needed was to be picked up by the police for wandering around the business district barefoot and armed.

The clerk at the Starbucks two blocks down and across the street glared at him when he walked in, probably over the lack of shoes.

Hammer's goons had left him his wallet, since it would have looked suspicious if Tony Stark was found dead without a dime on him. Tony pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, slapped it down on the counter, and ordered a cup of black coffee, telling the kid to keep the change.

Then he sat down in one of the low, soft leather chairs in the back of the store, rested his aching head in his hands, and waited for Happy to come and get him.

  
***

  
It felt incredibly strange to sit down with a history book and read about the future. Of course, the 1960s weren't technically the future anymore, but Steve still felt like a time traveler. The Cold War might be the past for everyone else, but it wasn't the past for him. There was a certain amount of petty satisfaction in discovering that Stalin had turned out to be every bit as untrustworthy as Steve had thought, though.

It was just... there were some things he just had trouble wrapping his brain around, like the fact that the Great War, the war his generation's parents had all been in, occupied a more distant place in the past for the people who were "his age" now than the Civil War had in his time.

There were some things in this time that were better, though. No more segregation, no more Depression, and much more equality between men and women -- more equality in general, honestly -- than Steve had been used to. And other things, too, smaller but equally amazing: a vaccine for polio, organ transplants, airplanes that could travel faster than sound, men going into space and walking on the moon. Not to mention computers the size of his fingernail, when the only one he'd ever seen prior to waking up on the Avengers' submarine had been the size of one of the Mansion's larger rooms. It had been under Grand Central Station, and had run the power grid for half the East Coast; Steve and Bucky had defeated a Nazi plot to sabotage it. Nowadays, it had probably been replaced by something about the size of the Mansion's microwave.

The knock on the front door was loud enough that Steve could hear it clearly despite being in the living room, with a hallway and a closed door between him and the foyer, loud and sudden enough to make Steve jump.

Probably Hank and Jan, getting home from what Hank had insisted was a friendly outing and Jan had clearly been determined to turn into a date. Then again, they had no reason to knock.

It was well after six; Jarvis was probably busy with dinner. Steve might as well give him a hand and get the door.

He checked the number of the page he was on and then closed his book and went to answer the door.

The knocking continued unabated, growing even louder as he entered the front hall, and Steve felt his whole body tense up as he reached for the doorknob, readying himself for trouble. He opened the door to find Nick Fury standing on the front steps, fist still up-raised to continue hammering on the wood.

He was there for Iron Man, he had to be. Steve felt sick, his stomach hollowed out with the sudden knowledge that he couldn't give Nick what he wanted. Not now.

Iron Man -- Tony -- was the first real, close friend he'd had since waking up here. The first since Bucky had died. Steve couldn't help SHIELD hunt him down and arrest him, not when he was certain that he was innocent.

"Where the hell is Stark?" Nick demanded, without preamble.

"I don't know," Steve said. At least it was the truth; Tony hadn't specified where he was going when he had left earlier.

"Damnit," Nick swore. "I've looked everywhere else. If he misses hearing that Iron Man's been cleared because he's off banging some dame, it'll be his own fault."

The knot in Steve's stomache vanished; he wasn't going to have to refuse an order after all. He wasn't technically under SHIELD's chain of command, but it still would have felt like a failure to obey orders. "How?" Steve asked.

"We ran all of the members of the UN staff and the Carnelian delegation through the FBI's database and came up with a hit. Larroca's camera guy matched the description of a man known to associate with at least two terrorist groups. The identity he was most recently known under is false, of course, but we managed to do what the FBI and Department of Homeland Security couldn't and uncover his real name." Nick sounded distinctly smug about that last bit. Steve would have bet good money that the directors of just about every other federal law enforcement agency out there loathed him, and probably with good reason, unless his ability to play well with others had dramatically improved.

"Which is?" Steve asked, after Nick had let the suspense build for a moment too long.

"He's a native of Vespugia." He must have seen Steve's confused expression and taken pity on him, because he added, "It's a South American country, one Carnelia's neighbors. The ruler's a dictator, and we're pretty sure that he's in bed with Victor Von Doom. Calls himself 'El Presidente.' We've been tryin' to dig up dirt on him for years, but as far as anyone can tell, the guy just appeared in South America in the late forties with no past. Anyway, the whole place is a pit, and Larroca's death put paid to a Carnelian-led attempt to impose economic sanctions on them."

"So this El Presidente character staged the Ambassador's murder and set Iron Man up to take the fall." And Carnelian was going to suffer for it. From what he'd heard from Tony, the country had been on the verge of a major economic opportunity, and now the entire US-Carnelian trade agreement had been completely sunk before it had even had a chance to get started. Relief at finally knowing with absolute certainty that Tony was innocent mingled with anger that these people will willing to high-handedly destroy Tony's life and livelihood and frame an innocent man in order to serve their own greed. Worse, they had murdered another innocent man whose only crime had been to try to serve his country to the best of his ability.

"Yeah. Looks that way." Nick pulled an unlit cigar from his jacket pocket and stuck it in his mouth, chewing on the end. Nick was the sort of person who probably took pleasure in ignoring "No Smoking" signs, but it looked like Jarvis's glare the last time he'd shown up with a cigar had made an impression. "That ain't the end of it, though. One of the photographs we turned up when we ran a search for the Vespugian mole's known associates matches one of the guys who tried to shoot up my barber shop. Christ, I'll be glad when Stark gets my aircraft carrier finished." He grimaced around the cigar. "Thank God I don't have to fire him. We'd have had ta completely restart the whole project from the ground up."

Nick, as ever, had his own unique set of priorities. A South American dictator had it in for the Avengers for no apparent reason, but the important thing was that Nick still got his Buck Rogers flying aircraft carrier. Steve still wasn't sure exactly why a tiny covert counter-intelligence and investigatory organization that seemed to consist mostly of Nick and a handful of hand-picked minions needed a flying aircraft carrier, but he'd given up trying to make sense of Nick's decision-making processes years ago, half-way through the first mission he'd been on with the Howling Commandoes.

"Any idea why Vespugian terrorists would want to kill us?" Steve asked, just in case Nick felt like sharing further.

"Not a clue." Nick shrugged, grinning. "You'll know when I know."

Steve was about to ask for Nick's word on that when he heard Thor's voice echoing from deep within the mansion, his tone alarmed.

"Tony, my friend, tell us what has befallen you! Who has dared to assault you and..." Thor hesitated, "taken your shoes?"

Steve left Nick standing by the door and followed the sound of Thor's voice, a jolt of adrenaline rushing through him. Tony had been attacked? He'd only left the mansion hours ago. He'd been fine. He... was this why he had wanted self defense lessons? Had he known someone was after him?

If he'd only told Steve, Steve could have--

Tony was striding determinedly along the hallway that led from the garage entrance, steadfastly ignoring Thor, who was following inches behind him. If he hadn't been a seven foot tall thunder god, Steve would have said that he was hovering.

"Mayhap you should sit down," Thor was saying. "I can summon someone to see to your injuries."

Tony's suit was crumpled, his hair was disheveled, and there was fresh bruise on his left temple. He looked pale, his jaw set. And as Thor had loudly observed, he wasn't wearing shoes. His eyes met Steve's, and there was an intensity in them that Steve couldn't decipher.

"Tony," Steve rushed forward, instinctively reaching for him, "What happened to-"

And then Nick unceremoniously shoved past him and grabbed Tony by the shoulders. "Where the hell have you been, Stark? My people have been looking for you for hours. I gave an order for you to be taken in for questioning hours ago, for that damn fake armor stunt."

Tony blinked, visibly refocusing on Nick. "Would you mind not shaking me?" he asked. His voice was casual, but Steve could hear the strain in it. "I spent the past couple of hours unconscious in one of Justin Hammer's boardrooms, after one of his goons clubbed me over the head with what I'm better was an illegal concealed weapon. A cheap one, too. You'd think Hammer could afford to buy his private thugs top-of-the-line firearms. Actually," he cocked his head to one side slightly, frowning, "I ought to still have it. In my inside pocket. I should turn it in, right?"

This Hammer person had knocked Tony unconscious and kidnapped him? Hot anger rushed through him, leaving Steve slightly surprised at its immediacy and force. Kidnapping and assault were something he would never stand for no matter who was involved, but this was Tony, this was Iron Man, and that made it personal. The Avengers were his team now, and Tony was one of them, and Steve wasn't going to let anybody--

"How long were unconscious after their blows felled you?" Thor asked, frowning. "You should seek a doctor to have your injuries tended to, and then we will return to this Hammer's place of business and ensure that he never does such a thing again."

"I'm fine," Tony insisted. "I just need new shoes and maybe a drink."

Nick blinked, then started to grin. "Tell me ya have hard evidence that will let me arrest that sonuvabitch and I won't charge ya with obstructin' justice over the fake armor."

"Would an audio recording of him confessing to the ambassador's murder count?"

"Did ya get it legally?" Nick asked, raising his unscarred eyebrow.

"No."

Nick shrugged. "It'll work fine."

Tony pulled off his watch and handed it to Nick with a faint smile. "There are also files from his computer on there that document his secret business dealings with Vespugia, amongst other things."

"Ha!" Nick was grinning now. It was nice to see that somebody was happy that Tony had been attacked. "If he's in bed with the Vespugians, we can link him to the shoot-out in front of our headquarters last month and that will put him in our jurisdiction instead a' the FBI's. Stark, yer my new favorite person."

"Thanks?" Tony didn't sound as if he were entirely sure this was a good thing. Steve didn't blame him.

"He has attacked my armsbrother's liege lord," Thor said, glaring down at Nick. "I believe that makes him our jurisdiction."

For one horrible moment, Steve was sure Thor and Nick were about to get into a fight over Tony's honor in the middle of the hallway. He couldn't help but feel that Thor had a point, especially since the attack last month had been aimed at the Avengers, but he wasn't sure the hallway would survive.

Tony grinned. "That's a nice thought, Big Guy, and normally I'd be right there with you, but if he's not dealt with legally, Iron Man's name can't be officially cleared."

Steve nodded. "We need to let SHIELD and the police handle this one. But you don't have to worry about clearing your name anymore. You and Iron Man have already been officially cleared."

Tony stared at Steve, face blank. "We have?"

"The Carnelian camera guy was a known terrorist." Nick was still grinning. "We figure it was him. Too much of a coincidence not to be. Hammer have anything to say about that?"

"Quite a bit." Tony frowned, then added. "You might want to send somebody out to Rykers to have a chat with the Phantom, too, before Hammer decides to clean house and sends one of his people out there to take care of him." His eyebrows drew together, as if he were confused or in pain, and he put one hand to his temple, rubbing lightly. He reached out blindly with his other hand, pressing it against the wall as if for balance.

Steve quickly ducked around Nick and took Tony by the arm. "Come on," he ordered. "You need to sit down before you fall down."

Tony blinked at him, looking startled. "I can do that later. This is important."

"Perhaps this discussion would be best continued another time," Thor said, putting one hand on Tony's shoulder. It was not a suggestion.

Steve exchanged glances with him, then nodded. "You've got your evidence, Nick. You can come back tomorrow. None of us are going anywhere."

"I will," Nick agreed. "And when I do, you," he stabbed a finger at Tony, "had better be here, or I'll rethink those obstruction of justice charges."

"I will escort you out," Thor stated calmly. He turned back to Steve, adding, "I will also call a mortal doctor."

"Get the one who fixed Hank's hand," Tony put in. "I liked him."

Thor nodded solemnly, looking oddly pleased. "I will bring Dr. Blake. And I will tell him you said so."

Then he and Nick were gone. Steve led Tony into the living room, moved his discarded book out of the way, and sat him down on the couch Steve himself had occupied only a few minutes ago.

Tony leaned his head back against the back of the couch, closing his eyes. "Steve," he began, "there's something you ought to-"

"When you left here after that self-defense lesson, you must have gone straight to Hammer's office," Steve said, interrupting him. Whatever Tony had to say, it could wait. "Did you know he was the one who framed you? Is that why you wanted me to teach you self defense? Did you actually go there to confront him?" Steve started to pace, back and forth in front of the couch, filled with restless anger and without an outlet. The real object of his anger -- Hammer -- wasn't there, but Tony was, and come to think of it, Steve was angry at Tony, too. What had possessed him to run off to confront a man he must have suspected was a murderer on his own, without his armor, armed with nothing more than a few hours worth of hand-to-hand lessons?

"I had a pretty good idea it was him, and even of how he'd done it, but I needed hard evidence." Tony's eyes were still closed. He looked tired, fragile, and Steve suddenly remembered his comment about not being able to sleep.

Maybe he could understand what had been going through Tony's head after all. Still... "Did it occur to you that before you went off to confront a potential murderer, it might be a good idea to tell someone where you were going?"

"It did, right around the time his three guards were holding me at gunpoint and talking about the best way to make my death look like an accident," Tony admitted.

Steve raised his eyebrows. "You didn't think about mentioning that part to Nick?" he asked, keeping his voice even with an effort.

Tony shrugged slightly. "It's on the tape," he said, waving one hand dismissively, his eyes still shut.

"You do realize that you could have been killed." Steve fought the impulse to grind his teeth or shout at Tony. Tony was tired, and probably concussed, and had been visibly on edge for the past two days. The stress had of being falsely accused of murder must have pushed him over the edge into acting more recklessly than he otherwise might have.

He'd believed that the Ambassador's death was truly his fault at first, that it had been caused by some kind of malfunction in the armor. Discovering, in the midst of that kind of guilt, that Hammer had orchestrated the whole thing, would have made him even angrier than knowing it was Hammer from the get go would have.

One side of Tony's mouth curved up in a smile. "Believe it or not, the thought did occur to me." He opened his eyes, looking up at Steve. "Are you going to keep pacing, or are you going to sit down?"

Steve sat down facing Tony, perching on the edge of the chair. "You know the rest of us would have helped you if you'd said something."

"You did help me," Tony countered. "I think I put one guard in the hospital. Or at least in a sling."

Which neatly avoided actually answering Steve's question. "Too bad there were three of them," he said.

Tony lips twitched, but he didn't reply. After a moment, Steve added,

"Next time you or Iron Man need help, say something."

Tony glanced away, his attention suddenly occupied by his suit jacket. "Hey," he observed. "I forgot to give Fury the gun." He pulled a handgun out from inside his suit coat and laid it on the coffee table.

"Well that's a relief," a voice said from the hallway. "I always prefer it when my patients aren't armed."

Steve looked over to see Thor's doctor friend standing in the doorway, medical bag in one hand and a cane made out of a massive piece of polished wood in the other. His office must be within a few blocks; this was the second time he'd shown up for an emergency call at the Avengers' Mansion in mere minutes. How had Thor managed to convince him to drop everything and come over? Steve had been under the impression that doctors didn't make house calls anymore.

Tony raised his eyebrows. "I don't think you'd have much to worry about even if I was armed. Your club looks pretty effective."

Dr. Blake glanced down at his cane, and smiled faintly. "Patients fear me," he said, as he limped over to where Tony sat. "One joke about Dr. House and you'll find out why."

"Who?" Tony blinked up at him, looking confused and, honestly, mildly concussed.

Dr. Blake sighed. "It's a television show about a doctor who has a cane and an attitude problem. I think he's based on the surgeon I did my residency under."

Steve watched while he shined a flash light into Tony's eyes to check his pupils, made him track a pencil with his eyes, and asked him the standard round of post-head injury questions.

He told him to get some rest, avoid alcohol and any other depressants for at least twenty-four hours, and was beginning to put his medical implements away when he glanced down and saw Tony's feet.

"Thor told me your attackers stole your shoes," he said. "I'm afraid I thought he was joking." He shook his head. "I should have known better."

Tony shrugged. "Maybe they thought I had some kind of James Bond-style gadgets in them."

"It's harder to escape when you have no shoes," Steve volunteered. "Barefoot people can't run as fast or as far."

There was a long pause. Dr. Blake frowned, and then asked, "You were walking around Midtown Manhattan with no shoes on?"

"Only for a block or so."

"Take the socks off and let me look at your feet. You're lucky you didn't step on a piece of glass."

Tony sighed, as if this were a huge imposition, but obediently peeled off first one filthy white sock and then the other.

"I take that back," Dr. Blake said, after a moment. "You have stepped on a piece of glass. Or something sharp, anyway. Have you had a tetanus shot in the past two years?"

"I've had three." Tony was staring down at his left foot as if mildly surprised to see the long, sluggishly bleeding scrape across his heel. He had obviously been even more shaken up than he'd seemed, to have not noticed it. "If I can't have any alcohol," he said, as Dr. Blake began cleaning the bottom of his foot with a disinfectant swab, "can I at least have coffee?"

"Sure." Dr. Blake shrugged. Then he fastened an adhesive bandage over Tony's heel. "There. That should do it."

"How much do we owe you?" Steve asked, remembering only after he said it that it would be Tony paying the bill, not the Avengers. Dr. Blake had treated Tony Stark, not Iron Man.

And even if 'Iron Man' had been injured in his capacity as an Avengers, it would still have been Tony's money paying for it.

"Nothing." Dr. Blake stood up, leaning heavily on his cane to do so. "Consider it a favor for a friend. If I were going to charge for it, I'd just send the bill to Thor." He nodded at Tony. "I'd recommend some rest, Mr. Stark. You look tired."

"The past few days have been... interesting."

That, Steve thought, was an understatement.

"How is your bodyguard holding up?" Dr. Blake asked, curiosity and something else Steve couldn't quite identity in his voice. "If these people used him as some kind of weapon against his will, he must be upset."

"He's fine." Tony shrugged. "Old Shellhead is pretty resilient."

"That's good to hear." Dr. Blake collected his bag, and added. "I got the impression Thor was worried. I don't think he'd ask, though."

Tony stood; favoring his left foot this time. "Thanks for patching me up, doctor. If you ever need anything, remember, I owe you a favor."

"I'll remember that the next time the clinic I work at needs some new, expensive piece of medical equipment."

Then Dr. Blake was gone, as abruptly as he'd come.

The Avengers, Steve reflected, appeared to have acquired their own personal physician. Considering how accident prone some of his teammates seemed to be, that was probably a good thing.

"Cap," Tony said after the two of them had sat there in silence for a long moment. "Steve. There's something you need to know."

"Does it involve people trying to kill you?" Steve asked, not quite sarcastically.

There was that not quite smirk again. "Only tangentially. And that's just because Hammer's involved." The smirk vanished, leaving Tony's face serious and uncharacteristically uncomfortable. "While you were teaching me how to avoid having exactly this happen to me," he touched one hand to the spreading bruise on the side of his head, "you mentioned a Nazi officer named Heinrich Zemo."

"What about him?" Steve said slowly. Zemo was a recurring presence in his nightmares. Baron Zemo had been nowhere near that German aircraft when it had blown up, but in Steve's dreams, he sometimes was, laughing mockingly in that infuriatingly superior way of his while the aircraft burned.

"He's the president of Vespugia."

  


  
***


End file.
